Golden
by Imaginethat27
Summary: For as long as he can remember, John Watson has been told that the world is a dangerous place. Locked away in a tower, he wishes for freedom and a more exciting life. And escape may just come in the form of a handsome, high-functioning sociopath... (John-Rapunzel, rated T for violence and minor sexual references).
1. Chapter 1

Here is a story which happened not so long ago, in a country not so far away..

Don't be put off by these words! This story is a fairy tale. Maybe not one that happened 'Once Upon a Time' but a brilliant one none the less.

It is a rare, flax golden tale which includes (but does not limit itself to) fighting, torture, hate, friendship, True Love, revenge, passion, escapes, freedom, great beauty, wicked deeds, truths and possibly the longest tresses in the world.

But to tell you this whole story, we're going to have to begin from the beginning. The _very _beginning.

* * *

Once, in a city known as London, there lived a man and wife who went by the name of Watson. The Watson's already had a daughter, whom they had named Harriet (Harry). There are a lot of boring things that could be said about this couple that are already blatantly obvious (e.g. they were good, kind, charming people, etc etc…) But nobody need go into all of that.

Back to the subject of children

Clearly, a miracle worker of some form was on their side, because the Watson's were about to be blessed with another child.

They were delighted of course. In every sense, they were happier than they'd ever been. Harry would get a sibling, and they would get a beautiful new child to care for. Nothing on earth could have ruined their perfect world.

Unfortunately, Fate is not kind. Fate likes a laugh as much as everyone else, and sadly for most, Fate's sense of humour was quite sadistic.

Because when they were at their happiest, Mrs Watson suddenly fell incredibly ill.

As in, _I'm-going-to-die-soon-literally-not-metaphorically _ill.

Of course, the family was stricken. Not only was Mrs Watson's life at risk, but the life of the unborn child inside her stomach was thrown into peril.

Mr Watson did everything he could to ensure his wife's survival. He consulted doctors and practised men of medicine, brought home every sort of pill he thought could cure her, and provided the constant care and attention that a sick person requires.

But nothing was working. As the days went on, Mrs Watson became even more ill. She grew frail, weary and tired, and eventually progressed to the point where she couldn't even leave her bed. Instead she remained there all day, coughing and hacking, while Mr Watson and Harry shambled around the house and looked generally worried.

It just so happened that one day, Mrs Watson was lying in bed, praying to any higher power in turn to either end her now or keep her alive…

She happened to glance out the window in an act of pure boredom, and what she saw made her cease her internal praying and snap back into full concentration.

Outside of her window, there lay a beautiful garden. You simply can't imagine how lush, how green and how simply glorious this garden was. It could have given the Garden of Eden a run for its money.

There was one particularly beautiful plant that caught her eye. It had fine purple and blue flowers. And something inside her stirred. After so long of feeling ill, she felt strangely better. And incredibly hungry…

Of course she had seen this garden before, many times. But she was pregnant, ill and suddenly unconditionally starving. And when you're all three of those things, no decent person stops to question pregnancy cravings.

Well, except Mr Watson.

When he entered the room, he found her sitting up near the window, drooling over the garden. Upon questioning her, she told him she simply had to have of those beautiful flowers.

"Flowers?" Mr Watson questioned "they look like weeds to me sweetheart."

"Whatever they are" Mrs Watson argued back "I simply must have some. They're beautiful, and they look delicious."

"Well darling, how do you propose I get them?" Mr Watson questioned "in case you've forgotten darling, that garden belongs to Jim Moriarty!"

Ah yes.

It seems that this little part will need some explaining.

Yes, the garden did belong to Jim Moriarty. But who was Jim Moriarty?

Well, he was a slim, short, dark haired young man, always dressed in ridiculously expensive suits and he had lived next door to the Watson's for years now. He was generally unsociable, generally quiet and generally not much of a bother to anyone.

But he was strange, nobody could deny that. Despite being handsome, his eyes were dark and dangerous. On the rare occasion that he happened to speak to one of the neighbours, the had always said that his eyes had a sort of deadly look to them, a sort of intelligent flame which burned right into his soul. His house seemed darker and gloomier than the rest of the neighbourhood, and some people even claimed to see mysterious flames dancing behind the curtains late at night.

He was well spoken and polite, but people he held conversations with claimed that his words were cold. When he spoke, it was as though a chill crept down the receiver's spine and wrapped around their heart. Some neighbours said that they had seen him leave his house at dawn break and return at midnight, with a self-satisfied look on his face. Sometimes he wouldn't leave his house for days on end, other times he would be out for many hours at a time.

And so thusly, people were quick to assume that he was strange, dangerous and someone you wouldn't want to bump into on a cold winter's night.

But you know how people are. They'll make up _anything_ when they're bored.

Mrs Watson rolled her eyes at her husband's interjections. She didn't care if her neighbour was a strange man. She wanted some of those flowers, and would go to any lengths to get them.

"Darling" she sighed "just jump over the wall and grab some tonight! There's no chance he'll catch you, and besides, he's got so many gorgeous plants he's probably falling over them!"

"I can't steal from him!" Mr Watson gasped "that's… well, that's stealing!"

Mrs Watson sighed. She snivelled and sniffed. She fell back against the covers.

"If I don't get some of those beautiful plants, I shall die, I know I shall!" she wept.

"Darling…"

"I can see the light!"

"You're being ridiculous!"

"My whole life is flashing before my eyes!"

"Please don't…"

"You'll have to help my mother organise my funeral!"

"Alright!" Mr Watson agreed "I'll get you some of those flowers, God, don't bring your mother into this!"

As he raced out of the door, Mrs Watson fell back against the covers in content, before turning back to watch over the glorious garden.

* * *

So, in the dead of night, just as the clocks were striking midnight, Mr Watson clambered over the wall which separated their gardens, and drop silently into Moriarty's garden.

He slipped through the garden slowly, pausing to listen to every creak or bump that he heard. Paranoia was beginning to set in, and he found himself shaking with fright.

But he located the flowers. Not stopping for an instant, he grabbed them up and clambered back over the wall to freedom.

Well, you never saw a woman more delighted than Mrs Watson when she saw the gorgeous flowers in her husband's hands. She ate them eagerly, and congratulated her husband for completing his task to the highest standard.

* * *

For a while, everything was alright in the Watson household. But after a while, Mrs Watson began to have the strange cravings again. She sat down against the window, staring out longingly at the gorgeous garden.

Mr Watson could feel the house filling to the brim with that unanswered question. Until finally, one dark day…

"Darling?"

"No."

Mrs Watson sighed "darling please, I need some, please!"

"No!" Mr Watson gasped "I'm not going back there ever again! Do you realise how terrifying that place is at night?"

Mrs Watson sniffed, eyes filling with tears.

"Fine! I'll just give my mother a ring and start the funeral arrangements shall I?"

"Oh for God's sakes!" Mr Watson cried "I'll get you those wretched flowers, just stop bringing your mother into this!"

And with that, he stormed out of the room.

* * *

Against all of his better will, Mr Watson found himself scrambling back over Moriarty's wall that night. He sneaked through the garden again, keeping himself hidden in the shadows, sticking close to trees and bushes.

He finally reached the spot where he had last found the flowers. Sighing and bending down, all the while muttering about his wife's ridiculous cravings, he plucked a handful, before straightening up and bumping straight into Moriarty.

Firstly, he learned that everything everyone had said about Jim's eyes were true.

Secondly, Mr Watson found himself falling to his knees and cowering in fear.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" Moriarty asked. His voice was cold, icy, smooth and scared the absolute wits out of Mr Watson. It was the voice of a murderer, an attacker, not than of a subtle neighbour.

"Please!" Mr Watson cried "these are not for me! They're for my wife, she's been so sick recently, she saw your plants, she was going to die… "

"You slithering little snake!" Moriarty literally hissed "you measly little mouse! You infantile little reptile! So you were trying to rob me then?"

Mr Watson was shaking so hard that the flowers fell from his grip and scattered on the ground.

"P-p-please don't kill me!" he squeaked.

Moriarty grimaced "why on earth would I want to kill you?" he sighed "you know, if you wanted flowers, you could have had the simple decency to ask."

Mr Watson bowed his head in shame.

"I am sorry, please forgive me. If there's any way I can make it up to you…"

Moriarty blinked. A slow smile spread across his face, the sort a cat gets as it tastes a glorious bowl of cream.

He picked Mr Watson up and dusted him down, holding the shaking man at arm's length.

"Your wife's pregnant I understand?" Moriarty questioned.

"How did you know?!"

Moriarty rolled his eyes "really? I've seen her outside you know, she's about the same size as a beach ball."

"What is it to you anyway?"

"Well, you've taken something precious from me, so I'm going to take something precious from you."

Mr Watson felt his blood freeze in his veins.

"You want me to… give you my child?"

Moriarty nodded. Mr Watson struggled to stay standing upright.

"But… but it's our baby!"

"Not if you want to keep your family safe it's not" Moriarty shrugged.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

Moriarty laughed "it's very simple my dear man. If you refuse, I can kill you on the spot. Now, I can sort it out very nicely so that the police can sever all ties to my connection, and I go free. Now, you've got a beautiful wife and child in there, with a baby on the way. And your wife is sick, near death…" Moriarty grinned "with no one to care for her, all alone…"

"Stop!" cried Mr Watson.

Moriarty paused and examined the shaking, tearful figure.

"If I give you the baby, then my wife can have all she likes from your garden?"

Nod.

"She'll live?"

Another nod.

Mr Watson took a shaky breath,

"Alright. If she has the child, you can take it…"

Moriarty nodded "I'm glad to see you're seeing sense Mr Watson. Goodnight."

And as quickly as he had appeared, Moriarty was gone, slipping back against the inky blackness of the garden at night.

When he had returned home with the flowers, Mr Watson went straight to his wife and told her the news. She promptly screamed in horror and fainted.

After she came round, she clutched her husband's shirt and wept about her selfishness, her remorse, all the while letting out heaving sobs.

Mr Watson had no words. For the rest of the night the pair remained together, clutching each other and praying that the horrible vow would be forgotten.

* * *

It was not long after that there came a day where Mrs Watson-after all her trials-finally gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. She and Mr Watson were delighted, and named the child John. He was a gorgeous child, with sparkling blue eyes and an already glorious mass of soft, golden hair.

For a while, everything was perfect. Moriarty had made no mention of the dreaded promise, and didn't attempt to collect his prize. Both of the Watson's decided to let the whole matter slip, hoping things would return to normal and they could let the whole dreaded matter disappear.

It was all in vain. Not long after that, in the middle of the night, the Watson's woke up to the sound of John's tears.

The both stumbled over to the nursery, and slowly pushed open the door.

They revealed a suit clad man, standing over John's crib. He turned around at the sound of the door opening, and his dangerous eyes glittered.

"I've come to collect my side of the bargain" Moriarty grinned.

Mr Watson shook his head. Mrs Watson was too dumbfounded to say anything, instead choosing to gape at the child's crib.

Moriarty-as though sensing her sight-gently lifted the baby out of the crib and brought it to his chest. John instantly quietened, before snuggling against Moriarty.

Moriarty nodded "well. I'd better be off. Pleasure spending time with you…"

He glanced at their horror-stricken faces and sighed.

"I'll take care of the child" Moriarty replied "he'll fare well with me, I'll treat him as though I was his own father…"

And that's when the Watson's finally found their voices. They begged. They pleaded. The bargained with Moriarty, imploring him not to take their child away.

Their voices followed him out of the room, down the hall, down the stairs and towards the door, growing more and more frantic as he neared his exit.

He ignored them, instead simply walking past them and slipping out of the door, John still clutched contentedly in the crook of one arm, before slamming the door behind him.

* * *

**Note: Hello!**

**First of all, welcomes. To people who have arrived from 'The Detective in the Tower' welcome back! To the people who have come from another story of mine, also welcome back! And to people who have no idea who I am, it is a pleasure to meet you for the first time! I trust we will get along splendidly. :D**

**For those of you who have come from 'Detective' you all know the drill. Otherwise, I should explain that this is a Rapunzel!John story. I have been experimenting with this sort of thing before and I have written the story 'The Detective in the Tower' which deals the cards with Sherlock as the one who is trapped. This time, we're playing with John being trapped. I have no idea if this idea is going to work, but we'll see how it goes! **

**Some other quick clarifications:**

**-Before you say anything, there is no particular reason why Moriarty wanted John in exchange for the plants. In the original Brother's Grimm story, this transaction is extremely vague. I have tried to expand upon it as much as I can here, but there is only a limit as to how far I can go!**

**-This chapter is mostly set up. Please believe me when I say that things are going to get far more exciting. This story is very different from 'Detective' so hopefully it is just as good (if not better!)**

**-Seeing as this is the first chapter, this will probably not be the best. But I always encourage feedback and reviews, so please let me know what you think!**

**Thank you, and please enjoy! Xx**


	2. Chapter 2

Mr and Mrs Watson were distraught. The next day, they went around to Moriarty's house and banged on the door, begging him to give the child back.

But there was no answer. When they tried the door, it swung open easily.

They wandered around the whole house calling for Moriarty. But there was no answer. The empty rooms were as cold and as bare as a tomb. It was almost as though the dangerous man had never existed in the first place.

The Watson's went home in despair, Mrs Watson being particularly shaken. They returned again and again to the house, but it remained empty and desolate. Slowly, over the years, Moriarty's garden withered away and died, the beautiful plants becoming overgrown with weeds and moss.

But the Watson's pain never disappeared. With every passing day, it was as though the pain grew like a bitter seed in their hearts. It was a pain made up of anger, sadness and inconsolable regret, and one which seemed bound to remain with them for the rest of their days.

* * *

Meanwhile, we are brought to the next point of 'where's Moriarty?'

He-unlike the Watson's-was doing fine. He had left the old, empty house and taken John away in a cab, sleeping peacefully in his arms and blissfully unaware of what had happened to him.

Moriarty knew he had to have somewhere he could care for the child without any prying eyes. Luckily, this dilemma had already passed through his mind, and he had a perfect place to raise the boy. And thusly, he took the child into a forest which lay on the outskirts of London.

He took the child through winding lanes, dark trees and empty silence, before he arrived at a covered clearing. Drawing aside shrubbery, he passed through and emerged into the clearing.

Before him lay an incredibly tall stone tower. It had walls as smooth as glass and stood like a lonely brick giant in the midst of the clearing. Moriarty wandered around to the side of it, pushed open a door and found himself wandering up many flights of stairs, before pushing another door open at the top.

He entered a large room at the very top of the very top of the tower. Moonlight streamed through the window as Moriarty shut the door behind him.

There was a desolate emptiness to the room which made even Moriarty shiver. But he would not be deterred. He was determined to keep his prize hidden, keep John all to himself.

He softly stroked John's golden hair. The baby awakened, and cooed gently at Moriarty's touch. The sound was almost enough to make Moriarty feel slightly emotional.

Yes. He would keep his beautiful treasure hidden away from the world. John was his prize and his alone, and he wasn't prepared to share him with anybody.

* * *

For the next twenty-three years (and true to his word) Moriarty raised John as his own son. And also true to his words, he kept John well 'protected' from the outside world. John was forbidden to leave the tower without his 'father's' permission, and completely banned from ever exploring the world which lay beyond the forest.

For the first part of John's life, his world consisted largely of only the tops of the trees and the clouds. He remained alone in the tower, save that of his father's company, and was often lonely and bored in mixed bouts.

But despite the more repressing aspects of his life, John was happy. Despite his father's occasional bouts of anger and frustration, he was a good father to John, and provided the young man with everything he could need and want.

Aside from that, with every passing day, John grew more and more beautiful. He had sparkling, ocean blue eyes, a spectacularly dazzling smile and a simply glorious abundance of golden hair.

His hair…

Moriarty loved John's hair. As a baby, John had possessed gorgeous blonde locks, and as he grew his hair became more and more beautiful. And how could Moriarty not love it? It was soft, it was silken and it bore a strong resemblance to spun gold.

He had tried to bring himself to cut John's glorious locks, he truly had. There were many times when he would sit the child in front of him and had raised his scissors to finally perform the deed. But he couldn't do it. There was something about shearing off that golden richness which seemed to pose as a crime.

And so for the past twenty years of his life, John had never cut his lovely, long tresses. And as a result, his hair fell in a tumbling golden mass right down his back and swept the floor like a golden train.

It was almost as though he was some kind of modern day Samson, his hair not only being a source of his beauty, but also of his strength. On anyone else, such a wonderful abundance of hair would look ridiculous. But on John, it simply made him more beautiful, so much so that Moriarty was not only even more determined to keep his prize hidden, but he also became slightly jealous of John.

"Look at your hair!" he would exclaim whilst running John's tresses through his fingers and marvelling at the softness "it's like a golden waterfall, the way it tumbles down your back like that…" he raised a hand to his own dark hair and sighed, and then brushed John's hair until it shone brighter than the sun.

But, in spite all of his encouragements, John's was still not as happy as he truly deserved to be. There would be days where he was refused to leave his tower, and would spend his time lying against the windowsill and watching the world spin outside.

Sometimes, if he glanced into the distance, he could see the city of London against the horizon. At night, when his father was asleep and blissfully unaware, John would slip towards the window and marvel at London when it was lit up in the distance, sparkling and glittering like a glorious fading dream.

And as he stared out at London, John would always silently wish that his life would begin.

**Note: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! And now you've probably all got a picture of Martin Freeman with long, golden hair in your minds. Thank me later ;).**


	3. Chapter 3

As mentioned before, Fate can be cruel. It can be brutal, ruthless and horrible, all in very quick turns.

But sometimes Fate can be pleasant. Sometimes it can be a wonderful thing which can form a strong bond or a unique form of hope.

It was a day not unlike any other. It was a pleasant, bright and altogether quite colourful day.

But John was unable to appreciate it. He was locked up at the top of his tower, seated on the windowsill, idly combing his long golden tresses and in turns feeling altogether very bored and very lonely. Two emotions which were not altogether unusual for him to experience.

He glanced over at his father. Jim Moriarty was sat in a great armchair, engrossed in a book. He seemed altogether happy and blissfully unaware of John's current state of mind.

John sighed softly and placed his comb down gently. He swung his bare feet over the ledge of the windowsill (he rarely left his tower, he had never seen any reason to wear shoes) and looked out over the world beyond.

He tried to imagine what the city must be like. He pictured himself rushing through broad avenues, his golden hair trailing gently after him with a whisper, experiencing everything that the city could throw at him.

John sighed again. He didn't understand why his father was so fearful of him leaving the tower. He had never seen what could be so horrible about the world, had never had a chance to figure out if the outside world was truly terrifying.

But John wished he could. He wished he could be free to experience the outside world for himself. John glanced over at Moriarty again, and made a decision.

"Father?"

Moriarty raised his head and smiled at John "yes Johnny-boy?"

Usually, if he called John 'Johnny-boy' then he was in a good mood. John took a risk.

"Father, I'm twenty-three years old now you know…" John began hesitantly.

"Yes" Moriarty interrupted with a smile "quite an achievement!"

John smiled "yes. Well, I was wondering… if I might be allowed to leave this tower?"

John knew he had made a mistake as soon as Moriarty paused.

"I beg your pardon?" his father's voice was soft and icy. John shivered, but he took the risk anyway.

"Please father, I was just wondering if I could leave this tower? I mean, even if it was only for one day, I would just dearly love to…"

Moriarty stood up. Despite being short, he seemed to loom over John in a great, black shadow, forcing to shrink down against the windowsill.

"I beg your pardon?" Moriarty questioned again, his voice even colder this time, icicles practically dripping off of his tongue.

John wouldn't be deterred. He tried again, his voice shaking slightly.

"Please father, I would just love to be free for one day! I just want to experience everything…"

John fell back as Moriarty slapped him hard in the face. John leaned against the windowsill as Moriarty loomed over him, his face a mask of fury.

"Under no circumstances!" Moriarty shouted as John cowered back "don't you know what kind of things are out there in the world?!"

John's face was stinging from the force of the slap, a red area rapidly spreading across his cheek. His eyes were also growing red with tears, but he refused to cry.

"There are all sorts of dangerous people out there!" Moriarty yelled "people whose only intention is to bring you harm! They'd rip you to shreds in seconds!"

John couldn't speak, let alone argue his case. His gaze remained fixed on his father, one which was made up of fear and hurt. Tears ran down his cheeks as he looked up in fear at his father.

Moriarty's eyes blazed. He grabbed John by the lapels of his jumper. John cowered back in fear, but Moriarty's eyes seemed to change their mind and suddenly soften.

"I only want to keep you safe John" he replied, his voice also losing its icy demeanour "what can the world provide for you that I can't already?"

John sighed in relief as his father's set him back down against the windowsill and took his hands.

"You're so precious to me" Moriarty said softly "I only want to protect you…"

"I know" John replied gently, wiping his tears "it's just… it can be so lonely up here.."

"My darling, you have me, don't you?" Moriarty cooed (well, tried to anyway).

"I know" John smiled sadly "but, I would dearly love to meet somebody else, somebody new…"

"And let them take you away from me?" Moriarty's grip tightened on John's wrists. John grimaced and shook his head.

"No father!" he gasped "it's just…"

"John" Moriarty silenced him "you are a great beauty" he gently ran his hands through John's silken locks "there are so many people out there who will take advantage of you in horrible ways…"

John sighed, knowing that he was running out of argument. He gently clutched his father's hands.

"Please father, if not for a day, even just for a few hours! I promise I'll come back…" Moriarty silenced him with a finger to the lips.

"John dear, Daddy knows best" Moriarty smiled a soft smile, which is somehow edged with ice "perhaps one day you'll understand."

He gently released John from his clutches and stood up, caressing John's injured cheek.

"I'm going to head into London for supplies" Moriarty smiled "don't you go running off without me!"

And with those words hanging in the air, Moriarty left the tower, shutting the door forcefully behind him.

John sighed and slumped down against the window. He watched his father disappear into the trees, before his attention focused towards the sky.

He was sure the world wasn't as bad as his father made out. He was sure that good people surely existed…

His father had always told him about the wickedness of the world, and the evil people who inhabited it. But John was convinced that there had to be at least one person who was an exception, someone who was a unique and special case…

John made his mind up. Despite the desperate words which begged him not to perform the deed, he didn't care.

He was tired of being locked away. He wanted a chance to experience a taste of freedom, even if it was just for a few hours.

With the idea still lingering in his mind, John raced over to the door and reached for the handle. It swung open easily.

John stared down into the inky blackness of the stairwell, before taking a deep breath and making his way down, his golden tresses falling behind him.

When he reached the bottom of the tower, John hesitated again. His mind was begging him to turn back and forget the whole stupid idea, but one small part of him told him to go on.

Go on. John gulped. His mind was flooding with the possibility of consequences, but still something was telling him to go on…

'Your father would be furious' John's brain told him.

_Go on…_

'What if he's right? What if the outside world is dangerous?'

_Go on…_

'But' a small part of his brain murmured 'what if this is your last chance of freedom?'

_Go on!_

Listening to the tiny whisper amongst thousands, John pushed the door open and found bright sunlight streaming into the dark tower.

John took a hesitant step outside. And then another… And another…

And then he was running, in awe of the feeling of the grass under his feet, the sun on his face and the wind whipping his gorgeous tresses.

He was free. Finally, for a blessed few hours amongst thousands spent in his tower, he was free.

And so, with his brilliant tresses falling behind him, he raced off into the forest, determined to make the most of his precious hours of freedom.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes was bored.

What?

Oh no, sorry. Let me rephrase that.

Sherlock Holmes was _bbbbooooorrrrreeeeed._

He hadn't had a case in over three weeks, and was seriously concerned that the police force in London was getting smarter.

Sherlock slouched down on his couch, three nicotine patches on his arm. It was slowly growing light outside of London, a warm glow emitting through the curtains.

No cases, no criminals, no deductions. Sherlock had barely moved from his couch since Christmas, when he had been forced into wearing 'an outfit of taste' (_bloody Mycroft and his stupid outfits, if Sherlock wanted to look like the Lord Chancellor he certainly didn't require Mycroft's help)_ and participate in mummy's annual Christmas party.

"It's all stupid"

"What is dearie?"

Mrs Hudson entered the room, tea tray balanced on one arm. She took one look at the groaning wreck of a man, and felt a wave of motherly sympathy wash through her.

"The world is stupid Mrs Hudson. And all that inhabit it" Sherlock groaned.

Mrs Hudson tutted and placed the tray down next to him.

"Eat something Sherlock dearie; I haven't seen you touch food for three days."

Sherlock moaned again and rolled over like a temper filled child. Mrs Hudson sighed and left the tray where it was, before going around and picking up some of the many items Sherlock had strewn around, despite her constant implications that she was '_not your housekeeper.'_

"Have you ever considered finding a partner Sherlock?" she questioned absent-mindedly.

Sherlock shook his head fervently.

"Love is not my forte Mrs Hudson" he replied "it is a common chemical defect found on the losing side-I could do perfectly well without it-caring is not an advantage."

Mrs Hudson sighed (sadly, Sherlock noticed) and he couldn't help but feel his heart clench. Mrs Hudson was a rather sensitive woman, and she still hadn't quite gotten used to Sherlock's frank expressions.

Sherlock watched her leave quietly, as though she didn't know quite what to say, before he shrugged himself off of the couch and went to stand by the window.

What he had said was a lie.

Ok, half a lie.

He had meant everything he had said, but he had lied about not wishing to experience it. Firstly, that would be a fascinating experience and secondly…

He often wondered what it was like.

What was it like to have someone who you adored unconditionally? What was love? And for that matter, what was friendship? How could you connect with somebody so strongly that they became everything to you?

Sherlock didn't have the answers, and it frustrated him beyond reasonable comparisons.

In a mixture of anger at his sudden area of incompetence and a sudden realisation that the flat smelt like desolation, Sherlock jumped up, shrugged on his coat and wandered out of 221B.

He flag down the first cab he saw, and ordered them to drive to the first place outside of London where he could legitimately think, and to hell with the price.

* * *

Half an hour later, Sherlock found his cab pulled up outside of a large forest on the outskirts of London.

"Perfect."

Sherlock gave the driver a handsome tip, before wandering off along the first path he saw.

It was quite in the forest. Shady, for one thing, slightly gloomy and yet, strangely compelling.

Sherlock decided quite abundantly that he liked it. There was quite a nice breeze blowing, the sort that gave a strange sense of calm. Not far away there was a bird twittering, but aside from that there was a lovely silence around the place.

This was the perfect place to think about grisly murders.

Sherlock leaned up against a tree and stood for a long while, lost in his own compelling thoughts.

Peace and quiet. That was what could occasionally improve his mental capacities rather than destroy them, and that was _exactly_ what Sherlock needed at this point in time. Silence...

There was something so odd about this place. Something so strangely dark, and yet so beautiful at the same time. Sherlock was convinced that this place had been created for the simple purpose of thinking. A place to get away from the boring realities of life.

It was also uninhabited. Who could possibly live in such an empty, dark place? Sherlock liked places like this. Not bloody and violent as compared to crime scenes, but not so boring that he felt like tearing his own hair out.

No. There was nothing out here but the birds, the shadows, the lush trees and a man with long golden hair not too far away from him.

It was perfect. Sherlock was sure he could survive in bliss…

_**Hold the phone.**_

Oh sorry. Sherlock was so deep in thought, that he almost thought he saw a man with long golden hair up ahead through the trees.

Sherlock shook his head. He wondered if this was what happened when his mind was too unstimulated. He started seeing men with luxurious golden tresses, in a comfy jumper up ahead in the trees, gazing around in an expression of pure fascination…

Jesus, take the wheel!

Sherlock jumped. He wasn't seeing things. That man was real. A man with the longest hair he had seen on _anything _in his life was less than a hundred metres in front of him.

In a flash, Sherlock was up and on the move. This was not something you saw every day. I believe most people refer to these moments as Fate, a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Sherlock loved once in a lifetime opportunities.

* * *

He crept slowly up to the clearing where the young man was standing. The man hadn't noticed him yet, and was continuing to gaze around in a state of utter fascination.

Sherlock slunk behind a tree and watched, mentally ticking off deductions as he went.

-Young man. Only about twenty...three years old…

-Fascination with everyday objects e.g. trees and plants. Botanist… No, right hand shows no sign of confirmation.

-Enthusiast? No, clothing is of wrong quality for long periods of study.

-Sheltered lifestyle! Wishes to experience textures as well as sight...

-God. Don't put that in your mouth you stupid man.

-See? God, common knowledge. Leaves may look nutritious, but they're really not.

-Yes, spit it out why don't you? That lumpy, green paste that just landed in the dirt is rather attractive, isn't it?

-Anyway. Sheltered lifestyle. Overprotective parent, going by his posture, featuring minor cases of abuse…

-Long hair. Parental fascination a key sign, but obviously an emotional attachment from the possessor as well.

-Golden. Another key element. An expression of strength perhaps? Golden hair is a key value of respect. Tresses are well maintained and regularly attended to with quite a loving care.

-Good god man, what happened to learning from experience? Don't put leaves in your mouth! Just because that one is orange, doesn't make it taste any nicer!

-Now, that's an orange saliva covered splotch. Pretty.

-Still, he's not stupid. Far from it. Clear signs of intelligence (left leg, upper lip, left hand, forehead…) _very _intelligent in fact…

-If he puts that in his mouth, I'm retracting that last deduction.

-No. He's smarter than I thought. Advanced in many areas of knowledge, main flaw is a sheltered lifestyle. Stupid is definitely his last attribute.

-Judging by his right shoulder, this is the first time he's been outside in… _years._

-Parent is single, male, suit wearing, intelligent…

-Also incredibly jealous of son. Why? Perhaps it's because of son's cleverness, curiosity, mannered expressions?

-His hair is rather beautiful; I could liken it to spun gold…

-WAITWAITWAITWAITWAIT**WHAT?!**

Sherlock shook his head. Did he really just say what he thought he had said?

He desperately looked back at the man again. His hair was beautiful. In fact, all in all, he wasn't at all sore on the eyes. In fact, scratch that, he was quite beautiful…

Sherlock may be sociopathic, but he was a man knew a good thing when he saw one. And the golden haired man in front of him was a fine example of a good thing.

Sherlock felt his chest tighten in a strange new way which he had never experienced in his life.

Sherlock couldn't describe it. It wasn't painful, and yet it felt strangely uncomfortable…

He had a strange feeling he was experiencing another emotion. He didn't know how to handle that. Emotions were about as rarely sighted by him as the Loch Ness Monster.

But Sherlock wasn't focused on that. What he was focused on was…

-There is a very unique, very clever (minus the 'tasteful experience with leaves') rather beautiful man in front of me.

-I've never seen anyone like him in my life before.

-I would be a fool not to take advantage of this moment.

His mind was made up. In that same instant, Sherlock stepped out of his hiding place and cleared his throat loudly, mentally preparing himself for a range of reactions.

He certainly didn't expect the golden haired man to turn around slowly, take one look at him, give a strangled gasp and then fall to the ground in a dead faint.


	5. Chapter 5

John was in glorious bliss.

He couldn't remember ever having had such a wonderful time before. Everything about the world that he was experiencing was new and... _exciting._

It was bright, colourful, charming and so beautiful that John was sure he was in some kind of fantastic heaven.

At first he had been hesitant. He had been slow to experience, and slow to understand. But gradually, he built up his confidence, and soon he was whooping about in a delighted glee, long golden hair whispering behind him.

He had passed into a clearing, a variety of trees surrounding him, their leaves red, green, gold and orange, which blew gently in a breeze which surrounded him.

He was happy. Blissfully happy. He wished he could never return to his tower, wished that he could just remain as he was in that moment, cocooned in innocent bliss.

He wasn't afraid of anything. He had been terrified at first of leaving his tower, but now that he was free he was in rapture, unafraid…

At least until he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

John spun around, and his eyes locked on a tall, slim, dark haired man.

For a moment, they stared at each other, their eyes locked in awe and shock. John tried to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, he fell backwards and hit the ground in a fainting scene worthy of Bilbo Baggins from 'The Hobbit.'

* * *

Sherlock dashed over and lifted the unconscious man up, cradling him gently in his arms.

"Are you alright?!" he called desperately, cursing himself for being so forward.

There was no answer from the golden haired man. Sherlock panicked, not knowing how to cope with an unconscious man out in the middle of nowhere.

He thought desperately, trying to come up with some sort of idea that would bring the young man around again. In desperation, he spontaneously grasped the man's golden tresses and pulled as hard as he could.

The golden haired man snapped awake, breathing heavily and getting his bearings together. Sherlock inwardly congratulated himself on his quick thinking, until he found the now-conscious man staring into his eyes.

The other man's ocean blue eyes were filled with pure terror. He stared up at Sherlock, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. Sherlock stared back, and then finally broke the silence.

"You know, it really is inconvenient of you to go around fainting without a word of notice."

The golden hair man stepped back shyly, his face red and visibly shaking.

Sherlock sighed. He remembered that this man could probably use additional coaching when it came to relationships, seeing as he had clearly been sheltered his whole life.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked gently.

The golden haired man nodded slowly, his eyes still wide with fear.

Sherlock sighed again and slowly stepped towards the fearful young man.

"You're clearly terrified" Sherlock said slowly "I've already deduced that you come from an incredibly sheltered background…"

"How?!" the golden haired man spoke up at last.

Sherlock quickly explained, hoping to dismiss the conversation and start afresh. He didn't expect the young man's eyes to widen, not in fear, but in awe.

"That was… amazing" the man smiled, and then looked down at the ground, blushing profoundly.

Sherlock was taken aback "it was?"

"Yes!" the blue eyed man grinned "it was… fantastic."

"That's not what people usually say"

"What do they usually say?"

"Piss off"

The golden haired man giggled, and Sherlock couldn't help but smile back at the lovely sound.

He could feel another emotion seeping through into his heart. He could understand that this one was telling him 'make his acquaintance, be courteous and polite.'

He gently took the golden haired man's hands and knelt before him. He saw the fear in the young man's eyes melt away and become replaced by a glorious sunshine.

"You mustn't be afraid of me" Sherlock smiled "I know you've been sheltered, but I don't intend to bring you any harm."

He spoke gently to the long-haired man, and watched as he slowly became more confident, his initial worry melting away as he slowly begun to answer Sherlock's questions.

* * *

Hours passed. And for hours, John was happier than he'd ever been in his life.

Here he was, sat in the middle of a forest, with the most unusual and unique man that he had ever met. And while it was true that John had met limited men, there was something about this one that told John he was rather extraordinary.

Firstly, he was curious. He questioned John about _everything _and John had a hard time answering.

Secondly, he was blunt. He asked John things in a very straight forward manner, which sometimes made him come across as hard hearted. But John was drawn to him the way children are drawn to bright colours.

And thirdly, he was lovely. He may be slightly cruel and bordering on slightly sociopathic, but he spoke to John kindly, and with genuine expressions. Moriarty's expressions were usually cold and forced; his words harsh.

But this man's words were kind, his voice gentle and his expressions endearing. There was a certain kind of fascination that linked him to John, and John was in bliss, knowing that he was admired.

So for many lovely, long hours, John was in perfect rapture. This man was unique, strange and unquestionably the most amazing person John felt he was ever likely to come across for as long as he lived.

* * *

Sherlock was in awe. Despite having been locked away for most of his life, this man was incredibly intelligent and clearly observant of the general etiquette of everyday life.

Sherlock wondered what it would be like, constantly shut away from the rest of society. He knew he would probably commit suicide efficiently if he was in that situation, but the long-haired man took it in his stride.

But Sherlock knew he wasn't happy with his situation. He could see it in the man's eyes as he spoke about his incredibly dull life, talked about his limited chances and his constant time spent locked away.

Sherlock saw the pain in his eyes as he spoke. Sherlock noticed the clenching of his hands as he spoke about his father, the man who was responsible for his sheltered upbringing. He saw the longing in the man's eyes as he spoke about his desire for freedom.

So Sherlock made an insane proclamation. He grasped the golden haired man's hands and spoke gently.

"Come away with me. I'll take you away from your tower; you can live with me in my home."

The long-haired man blinked, his eyes wide.

"R…really?" he spoke in a sense of pure surprise and hope "you can?!"

Sherlock nodded, wondering just what he was getting himself into.

"I've got a flat in central London, it would easily accommodate two people" he grasped the golden haired man's hands even tighter "please say you'll come, it would make me the happiest man in the world…"

The young man's eyes were desperate. Sherlock could see he wanted to say yes, wanted nothing more than to agree to come with Sherlock and start a new life.

But he couldn't. Sherlock knew he was defeated when the golden haired man backed away slowly, his head positioned towards the ground.

"I-I can't" he managed to gasp "I'm… I'm sorry."

The man started to turn away, but Sherlock grasped his hand.

"Please" Sherlock half begged. He didn't want his conversation with this mysterious man to end, didn't want him to disappear.

But the golden haired beauty turned away; shaking his head again "I can't… please let me go!"

So Sherlock did. He loosened his grasp on the man's hand, and he backed away from Sherlock.

"I'm…" the golden haired man fought for the words "I'm sorry…"

Sherlock shook his head. He was used to being rejected by nearly everyone he met, but this particular rejection made his heart ache.

"I apologise for my advances" Sherlock stated quietly "I… clearly misjudged your demeanour."

"Please, I'm sorry…"

Sherlock turned away from the long haired man, who was looking sadder and sadder with every passing moment. He didn't want to have to see the man's emotional barriers collapse.

"It was a pleasure speaking to you" Sherlock nodded "good day…"

He left quickly. Behind him, he could hear the other man calling out to him to wait, but Sherlock quickened his pace, feeling rejected and broken.

The golden haired man didn't come after him.

It was only when he reached the edge of the forest that he realised that he hadn't even asked the stranger his name.

Sherlock cursed outwardly and pounded his fists against a nearby tree, feeling them scrape painfully against the bark.

He had lost the only human who had ever made Sherlock feel even slightly intrigued. As he trudged home in a damned daze, he wondered if he would ever see the golden haired beauty again.

* * *

John watched in dejection as the one man he had ever felt a connection to walk away from him.

He felt tears rush to his eyes. The man disappeared into the trees, his back flaming in dejection.

John couldn't help himself. He wept, desperately calling for the mysterious man to come back. But he didn't, and John daren't to follow him.

"Please" John wept quietly; even though the young man was long gone "I don't even know your name…"

In dejected sadness, he returned to the only place he knew he would be safe, cursing himself for not taking up the stranger's offer.

He had seen his one chance of freedom slip away. And all because…

He was afraid.

He was terrified of the world and terrified of what could possibly become of him at the hands of society. An empty forest was fine, but a city of strangers? Forget it.

But he was most terrified of his father. Moriarty's sudden snaps were insane and difficult, meaning John never had any control over his father's mood. If he knew John had even thought about escaping his sheltered lifestyle…

John shuddered.

* * *

He arrived back at his tower, still wiping the remnants of tears from his eyes. He slowly walked up the winding staircase, before arriving back at the topmost door.

He pushed it open and leant against it, his eyes shut, breathing in and out deeply. He tried desperately to release the stranger from his mind, but found the task near impossible.

"Hello Johnny-boy" a sudden voice wafted across from the window.

John's blood ran cold.


	6. Chapter 6

John gaped in complete horror as Moriarty stood up swiftly from the windowsill and wandered over to his 'son,' his eyes black and cold.

"And where might _you _have been my dear?" He asked, his voice dripping with an evil tone.

John was shaking too much to give any form of legitimate answer. He shrank back in fear as Moriarty stood over him, his breathing laboured and cold.

"I said, _where might you have been my dear?"_ Moriarty's voice was dripping with sarcasm, his breathing laboured and eccentric.

John couldn't speak. He watched as his father raised a hand and gently stroked John's golden tresses, his hands as cold and hard as his eyes. John flinched as his father's hand came down and rested slowly by his side. The long-haired man dared to breathe out for an instant.

The sudden slap after almost a minutes worth of silence sent John sprawling across the floor. He raised his arms to protect himself as Moriarty came over to him, as though he was a hunter and John was the miserable beast he was about to finish off.

"**You deliberately disobeyed me**!" Moriarty screamed, his voice rising and buzzing around the cold, stone tower "you filthy little..."

He collapsed, using words so harsh that legally they're unprintable. John cowered back in fear as his words became crueller and his actions crazier.

"Please father!" John desperately intervened, his voice shaking as he "I didn't mean any harm…"

This only seemed to further anger Moriarty. He screamed in John's face, defying him to intervene with his opinion again.

But then, the topic took a deadly turn.

"What happened while you were out there?!" Moriarty yelled "did you meet anyone?!"

And then John made a fatal mistake. He hesitated far longer than he should have. Moriarty's eyes blazed.

He grabbed John and flung him against the stone wall of the tower. John cried out in pain, but Moriarty payed him no heed.

"Who?!" Moriarty screamed "who did you meet?! Tell me now!"

"I don't know his name!" John cried desperately "please father, I honestly don't know who he was!"

Moriarty didn't believe him. He shrieked at John, berating him for his disobedience, his lying, his desperate freedom and his interaction with the mysterious man, making the non-existent window panes in the tower rattle from the height of his anger.

The whole time, John felt tears run down his cheeks as he desperately tried to deny his father's motives. He tried to tell his father that he hadn't meant to disobey, that he hadn't meant to hurt his father and that he hadn't meant anything in his bid for freedom…

After almost fifteen minutes (you read that right) of lecturing, screaming, yelling and emotional trauma, Moriarty flopped down on John's bed and buried his head in his hands.

John got shakily to his feet, watching his father as though he was a bomb about to go off.

"After all these years…" Moriarty whispered, his voice deadly and low "all these years I've kept you safely hidden from the world, and this is how you repay me?"

John could only look on in fear as Moriarty remained silent for a few more minutes.

And then he spoke again, his voice as dark and quiet as a shadow.

"I'm not letting anyone take my beauty away from me again…"

His fist connected with John's jaw, and the punch sent the golden haired man to the floor sprawling against the floor, rendering him unconscious as his head connected with the stone pavers.

* * *

Moriarty stared over the unconscious figure of his son, his eyes blazing, his breathing laboured.

'How dare he?' Moriarty thought to himself 'after all these years I've kept him hidden…'

He knew one thing for sure. He wasn't going to let his gorgeous treasure escape again. He had worked hard caring for his beauty for years, and he wasn't about to share him with anyone.

Moriarty wracked his brains, desperately trying to come up with some kind of solution that would keep John locked away.

And then an idea flew through the window, flapped around the room for a moment and then hit him in the face.

Moriarty rubbed his face as the idea ran away down the stairwell, giggling as it disappeared down into the darkness.

Moriarty grinned. He knew _exactly _how he was going to keep his prize hidden.

To ensure that-if John awoke-he wouldn't try to escape again, Moriarty lifted him up onto his bed, tied his golden locks to the bedposts and then wound them around his son so that he couldn't move. Then Moriarty grabbed a coat and raced out of the door, locking the tower behind him.

* * *

Eventually, after a hunt around London which proved to be both tedious and questionable, Moriarty arrived back at the tower. With him, he carried a load of supplies which would play a wonderful part in keeping John hidden away.

Moriarty paused for a moment, wondering if he could actually bring himself to do what he was considering. This would be a pretty big step in keeping his prize locked away, and Moriarty knew that it would require some dedication and respect from both sides…

Moriarty looked up at the lonely tower, and his fury came flooding back. His thoughts turned to the idea of his golden haired beauty interacting with another man, and his eyes blazed with fury. Moriarty knew he had to keep John locked away from the world, whatever the cost.

John was his and his alone. Moriarty refused to even consider sharing his treasure with the rest of the world. His mind was made up…

Taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves, Moriarty bent down inside the tower's ground-level door and set to work.

* * *

John felt sick.

His head was aching, spinning madly against the interior of his mind. He tried to slowly open his eyes, and was rewarded with blood red swirls against the dark interior of the room.

As his eyes and mind slowly adjusted to the light, he noticed his father, sitting in an armchair on one side of the room, calmly watching him.

"Evening Johnny-boy"

John moaned, and tried to avoid bursting into tears again from the aching pain of his head. His hand reached up to his cheek, and he felt dried blood come away.

John whimpered in his father's general direction, not quite knowing if he was begging or defying.

Moriarty sighed and got up, walking over and gently stroking John's bloodied cheek. John shivered, slightly in repulse, but mostly in fright.

"Oh Johnny…" Moriarty sighed softly "my darling, why must you insist on running away from me?"

John shook his head, tears clinging to his eyelids. Moriarty gently unwound John's hair, before slowly helping the defeated and frightened man sit up.

"Johnny, all daddy wants to do is keep you safe" Moriarty crooned "all I want is to protect you from the horrible reality of the outside world…"

John shivered and still refused to speak, too afraid of bursting into tears should a word leave his mouth.

Moriarty clutched his son's hand, staring deeply into his eyes.

"John I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I can't have you running away from me again" Moriarty spoke softly "I've had to brick up the doors to your tower…"

"What?!"

John found his voice at last on those last, hateful words. Moriarty looked at his son's tear filled eyes, his damp face and his horrified expression.

"I'm sorry John" Moriarty shrugged "it's the only way to keep you safe from the world…"

John shook his head, desperately trying not to let his walls down.

"But… how will you leave?" John spoke in barely more than a dry whisper "how will you bring me food..?"

Moriarty gently ran his hands through his son's golden tresses, watching the stunning locks as they slipped through his fingers and fell back into place.

"Your beautiful hair will be my key" he whispered "I'll call out to you every day-my own little rhyme-and then you can let your hair down to me…" he stroked John's hair softly "it will be our own little secret."

And then John's barriers broke. He let his head drop into his hands, before he silently began to weep. And anyone can tell you that when you're silently weeping, it's because you can't stop.

Moriarty watched John's heartbreak for a while (a while being a good half hour), before gently picking up John's tresses and wandering over to the window.

John gasped as he felt his golden locks tumble suddenly to the ground. He lifted his head and watched his father as he stepped up onto the window ledge.

"I'll be back tomorrow with supplies" Moriarty nodded "make sure you draw your hair up after I'm gone…"

And with that, Moriarty slipped down John's golden tresses, before dusting himself down and wandering off into the trees.

John watched him disappear. For hours he sat by his window, his eyes still watery and his heart broken in his chest, watching his golden locks as they blew gently in the breeze.

And as the sun began to cast a dark red glow over the world, John felt everything in his world slip into a despairing darkness, one which he wasn't sure he could ever escape again.


	7. Chapter 7

For the rest of that first, lonely night, John lay against the windowsill, too much in shock and horror to even attempt to move.

He stared out against the world, feeling tears rush to his eyes. He was truly trapped now; there was no way he could possibly escape from his father's clutches now. He was locked away from the world permanently, existing only in the world of his father.

As the sun rose over the remnants of yesterday, John still lay against his windowsill. He had long since drawn his golden tresses back into his tower, and now they surrounded him in pools of golden silk.

After what felt like two eternities, he heard a familiar Irish lit call out a strange rhyme.

_John, oh John, let down your hair,_

_So I may climb the golden stair!_

John leaned out of the window and saw his father standing far below.

"What?" John asked. He wasn't trying to be defiant, he was genuinely curious.

"Let down your hair!" Moriarty called again, a tiny edge to his voice "don't you remember what we discussed yesterday?"

John would never forget that conversation. He reluctantly let his beautiful tresses tumble down to his father, who grasped them and began pulling himself up.

John gave a gasp of pain and desperately clutched at his golden locks, feeling his father tug relentlessly at his locks.

Eventually, Jim hauled himself through the window. John stepped back swiftly, allowing him a moment to brush himself down.

'So Johnny-boy" Moriarty smiled "how was your first night?"

John refused to speak. He wasn't going to give Moriarty the satisfaction of a reply, and he didn't quite trust himself to not break down if he even considered talking.

Moriarty shrugged and handed John a basket "food supplies" he nodded "I expect you're hungry…"

John still refused to answer. Moriarty shrugged before turning around and beginning to put away the food items.

"You'd better learn to like this place John" Moriarty spoke again eventually, placing the last item in its closet and shutting the door "because you're going to be here for a very long time…"

Moriarty's voice was awful and sly. It was the kind of voice you might expect to hear come out of a fox, right before it snapped up a baby bird in its sneaky jaws.

John turned away from his father and faced the window. He felt a tear dribble down his cheek. He swore fervently inside his head, refusing to let his emotions show, but he couldn't help himself.

Moriarty looked over at John's shaking figure. He smiled that same sly smile and walked slowly up to him, before taking his golden locks in both hands, gently tugging the soft tresses as John whimpered.

"You're mine my beauty" Moriarty whispered slowly against John's neck "all mine. Just you…" he softly kissed John's golden hair "and all of your pretty, pretty hair…"

John couldn't move. He felt Moriarty move away from him, running his long hair between his hands, letting it fall in a tumbling mass towards the ground.

"You do know why I'm going to keep you locked up?" Moriarty growled.

John nodded, tears in his eyes. But he wasn't upset anymore, he was frightened.

"I'm going to keep you locked up" Moriarty smiled "because I am the only one who deserves such glorious beauty" he took his son's hands "and it is rare to find a treasure more beautiful than you…"

John didn't know whether to be flattered or frightened.

"…you have to lock beauty away" Moriarty continued "beauty is a joy, a thrill, a pleasure…" he flashed John a wicked smile "and I refuse to share my beauty with anyone."

"I thought you said the outside world was dangerous" John choked out "I thought that was why you were going to keep me locked up..."

Moriarty laughed "Johnny-boy, if anyone's dangerous, then I'm a leading example" he gripped John's hands "but you trust me, don't you my dear?"

He flashed John the same grin a shark gives a little fish before it gobbles it up.

"I said, **don't you my dear?**"

_No._

"Yes."

Moriarty smiled "good boy Johnny, nice to see you've gained a little more sense in 12 hours."

John shivered in repulse as Moriarty grasped his golden locks and gently ran them through his hands.

"In a world of locked rooms..." Moriarty breathed slowly "the man with the key is king..."

He gently kissed John's tumbling locks.

"And honey, you should see me in a crown."

He gently threw John's hair through the window, calling out to John that he'd be back tomorrow, before slipping back down and disappearing into the trees.

John leant against the windowsill, feeling frightened and altogether violated.

He hadn't understood his father's remarks on beauty. For his whole life, Moriarty had called John beautiful. For his whole life, John had been hidden away.

It sometimes seemed he was no more to Moriarty than a decent painting. Lovely to look at, but altogether can become boring after a while.

His father had always told John that he loved him, but what for? Himself, or his beauty? Moriarty worshipped John as though he was a priceless treasure, but at the same time could treat him like he was instantly replaceable and worth nothing.

John didn't trust his father one iota. If he was condemned to spend the rest of his life locked away, he would have to learn to play by his father's rules.

He would have to learn to play the game.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was sure he had gone round the twist.

He couldn't stop thinking about the beautiful, long-haired man in the forest, who had stolen his heart and his senses. For years, Sherlock had been nothing but a sociopath.

Sherlock cursed in his head. He was back at 221B, dressed in nothing but a sheet, holding his violin gently in his hands.

For years he had refused to even attempt to conceive emotions, to understand how feelings and thoughts could work and form basic human instinct.

But ever since he had seen the beautiful man in the forest, his head and his heart had been nothing more than a jumble. Sherlock was confused, and he hated it.

Sherlock drew the bow across the violin, producing a range of squeaking notes. Cursing like a sailor again, he gave up on the violin and slammed it down, focusing all of his thoughts on his current predicament.

He was always so used to being right, to understanding things. But he couldn't understand the feelings he had felt around the golden haired man, and now the chances were incredibly likely that he would never see him again.

Sherlock cursed himself again. Why hadn't he asked the man his name? Why hadn't he stopped to think about the impact the man had made on his life at the time?

Why had the beautiful stranger refused to go with him?

Why had he rejected a chance of freedom, of escape? Clearly he had wanted to run away, so what was stopping him?

Sherlock didn't have the answers. But he wasn't about to give up. He had to see the man with the luscious locks again, he just had to.

He needed to sort out his questionable emotions, and form a solid opinion of his new feelings. He didn't care if it took years, but he was going to find that golden haired man again, no matter what the cost.

**Note: In case anyone's curious, the little rhyme that Moriarty uses to gain access to the tower is not mine. In many versions of the story, this rhyme is used as a substitute for the original lines. However, seeing as I used the original call in 'the Detective in the Tower' I thought I would change it up here. What do you think?**


	8. Chapter 8

As the first lonely year went by, John slowly learned to cope with his restricted lifestyle inside the tower.

He found that he could relieve the strain on his scalp by braiding his hair into one long plait. Thusly, every time that Moriarty called out his rhyme, a long, strong plait of golden rope tumbled down to him instead. He had also convinced Moriarty to install a hook against the window, which was another brilliant way of relieving pain.

But while physical pain can be relieved with time, emotional pain cannot. The first few lonely weeks had been times John longed to forget.

At first John had rebelled. After he had gotten over his initial shocked stupor, he began to refuse conversation with his father, some days even refusing him entrance into the tower. Other times, he would snap at his father, a new courage that he never knew had existed within him came out. He shouted at his father to let him go, insisting that he couldn't possibly keep him locked away forever…

However, his plans had failed. Moriarty had refused to give up on his word of keeping John locked away, no matter how much John rebelled. Eventually, John gave up on the rebellion aspect and attempted the cold, rock hard silent treatment.

But that could only last for so long. John found that when he couldn't voice his opinion, he began to go around the twist.

So he tried being a good, obedient son, doing whatever Moriarty told him and obeying his every command. But he found it completely impossible, considering the injustice of the situation and his insistent wish to leave his tower. He didn't want his father's sympathies and he didn't want to pretend he was alright with the situation.

So John took the only option left. He simply became uncaring. He went about his daily tasks in a dream, and behaved in an otherwise polite and cold manner towards his father.

But there was always that time when-at the end of a day which seemed to drag on forever- his father would leave his tower, and John would left alone again.

And those were the only moments that John even remotely enjoyed.

He would lean against his windowsill, and watch the day slowly turn into a inky blackness of night, noticing the stars as the emerged from behind the clouds which usually dotted the sky.

And this was the time when John would dream about the mystery man he had met in the forest that fateful day.

John often wondered where he was now. Did he ever think of John? Did he ever wonder what had become of him? Where was he now…?

He knew he couldn't have fallen in love with anyone so quickly, but Moriarty had never treated him with the same kindness the dark haired stranger had. And slowly over the course of the meeting, for the hours that ticked by, John had found himself becoming more and more enchanted by the stranger.

But there was no chance that the mysterious man could possibly love him back, was there?

John couldn't answer. All he knew was that the strange man he had met that day had won him over, completely and truly. John eternally cursed himself for refusing the man's offer of escape.

And then he would think about where he could be at this moment. He was locked in a tower, withheld from the rest of the world. What could the strange man be doing at this moment? Having some kind of adventure, the sort that John had always longed for? John didn't care about the consequences anymore, he just wanted freedom.

Then he would remember the way the man had looked at him and spoken to him. How he had cupped John's hands gently within his own. How he had treated John as an equal, a colleague, a friend…

It made John want to cry, knowing that the chances of him ever seeing the gentleman again were seemingly impossible.

Sometimes he would look down at the ground and wonder if he could jump. The chances of him surviving were slim to none, but perhaps death would present a more entertaining option…?

But John couldn't. He may have nothing to live for, but he wasn't going to give up. He knew there was a way out of his misery, and although he didn't have any idea what it was, someday the solution would come to him.

Until that day came, he would just have to muddle through somehow…

* * *

Sherlock was at loss.

He had tried to find the mysterious man, he truly had. He had searched everywhere in the forest, every inch of the desolate place.

But nothing had come of it.

He had gone left, right, north south, east, west. He had stopped people who lived nearby the forest and asked if they had ever met a man with an abundance of long, golden tresses. He asked people who happened to wander down the road on walks if they had ever seen-even a passing glimpse-of a stranger with the longest hair to possibly be bestowed upon man or woman.

Nobody had.

Sherlock grew more and more agitated with each passing day. He began to wonder if the mysterious man in the woods was just a dream, a figment of his imagination.

But Sherlock was so sure he couldn't be. They had spoken, Sherlock had held his hands, his eyes had been bright, his hair shining the most brilliant gold in the afternoon sunlight…

Sherlock knew he was real. He knew he hadn't been on drugs that afternoon and he knew that his brain wasn't deceiving him. You don't just _forget _people like the man in the forest.

Because…

Sherlock couldn't even admit it to himself at first. He was a sociopath! He had no emotions!

He had thought that his mind was playing tricks on him. But that afternoon, new feelings began to seep through his chest and into his heart, and he had found himself acting on them.

It was as though emotions were no longer a burden. The glorious hours that he had spent with that strange man had been anything but boring or uneventful.

Because as much as Sherlock loathed to admit it. He had developed… feelings for the golden haired stranger.

For Sherlock, this was on par with being told that he had five minutes to live. He was shocked when the revelation hit him, and it refused to leave. But no matter what he told himself, the ultimate part of him which was human remained otherwise convinced in his feelings.

Why else would he bother searching for the stranger? Why else would this man, this so seemingly unimportant man, occupy his thoughts to desperately at all times? Sherlock had barely thought about his cases, he had been so entranced by the memory of the long-haired man.

Sherlock had never fallen in love with anyone before. He had sexual relations on cases before, but there was no emotion to them-at least, not from his side-all that counted was Sherlock gathered the information he required, and to hell with the fact that his companion was about to go off like a rocket.

But this mysterious man… Sherlock found himself wanting to converse with him. To want to continue the conversation. Even if it didn't seem possible-that someone could fall in love so quickly-Sherlock didn't care. He knew that by some means, he had to see the handsome stranger again.

And unless Sherlock found him, it seemed he was doomed to spend the rest of his days thinking about the sheltered life of the unique and beautiful man who had by some means managed to capture his heart that fateful afternoon.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Five years later…**_

Five long and lonely years.

John stared out of the window for the infinite time, watching as the sun rose slowly over the edge of the world.

You'd have thought five years of having nothing but a constant stress source from a clearly insane father and a restricted lifestyle would have taken its toll on a person's looks. Perhaps aged them a bit, given them a few lines from worry, loneliness…

Clearly you don't think much.

If anything, John had only become even more beautiful.

His eyes certainly lacked a sparkle they'd had before, but there was still a light that lay behind them. When John managed to smile, he could stun the daylight and bring the stars to shame…

And his hair. Well, what do you think?

It had only become even more gorgeous. It had grown longer than ever, and still had a soft, spun gold, silken look to it, and the golden quality was only more gorgeous than before.

So all in all, John was beautiful. And Moriarty was even more jealous.

Every day he still came to see John in his tower prison. He would stand at the foot of the tower and call up his rhyme.

_John, oh John, let down your hair,_

_So I may climb the golden stair!_

And of course, John had to do what he was told.

He wound his golden plait around a hook by the window, and let his flaxen locks tumble to the ground far below. Moriarty would then grab the strong, silken braid and haul himself up (painfully slowly) to John's chamber.

From there, he would spend hours with the young man, becoming more and more enamoured by his beauty and more jealous with every passing moment.

He wished he possessed John's lovely looks and personality. And slowly-as he grew more jealous-he grew more certain that he would keep John hidden away from the outside world for as long as he could.

But despite the more deteriorating aspects of his condition, John tried desperately to improve the situation he was held in.

He tried to keep himself busy in any way possible. He cleaned the tower until it shone. He read anything that happened to be lying around. He combed every last centimetre of his long, long hair. He even taught himself how to play guitar, after he had begged his father for something to do in a fit of boredom one day.

The battered wooden instrument had come as a 'sit down and shut up' gift, and while John was apprehensive at first, he slowly began to love the delicate songs he could play when he gently strummed a chord.

And so, that was his life for five long years. Brushing his golden tresses and playing tunes to the empty sky.

There was only one thing that kept John alive. It was an empty hope, but it was all that he had left.

John still upheld the hope that somehow the mysterious man he had met in the forest that fateful day could possibly remember him.

John missed him desperately. Every day he replayed the meeting in his mind, smiling unconsciously as he remembered the man's demeanour and personality.

It was the only time John was ever happy, when he was remembering the dark haired stranger. His eyes lit up and a warm feeling would spread across his heart.

It gave him some hope. A hope that one day, he would be free from his wretched tower and that they would be bound to meet again somehow…

* * *

Five years had done nothing for Sherlock Holmes.

He had become more and more sociopathic. He was cold, and was only ever filled with joy when he worked on his cases.

His insults were harsh and bleak, making his 'colleagues' in equal measures blush or want to throttle him. He was not generally popular amongst the crowds, but Sherlock couldn't care less.

Lestrade kept a constant employment rate up, for which Sherlock was eternally grateful. Without any work, Sherlock wouldn't have known if he could possibly have survived.

Sherlock had become dry and empty. He had been a reclusive and had generally avoided leaving his apartment aside from his cases. He became silent and lonely, not even Mrs Hudson could snap him out of his spell.

And all because…

He hadn't been back to the forest after that first year. He remembered the way he had tramped around, endlessly looking for the flaxen haired beauty, questioning everyone he had met…

Nothing had come of it. It infuriated Sherlock to think that he could have been so cold and so stupid as to not have asked the young man his name.

Five lonely years and still his feelings had not slipped. He _still _was sure that he loved the stranger he had met.

He had tried time and time again to rid himself of the feelings. But they had stayed true to him even when he had desperately tried to delete them.

The golden haired man simply refused to be deleted from his mind. He simply wandered around, sometimes in a dream-like state, other times in a very real and very fantastic state.

There were some nights where he dreamed about the handsome man, felt himself running his hands through the long golden hair, whispering gentle words, telling him all about his latest deductions…

When Sherlock's body betrayed him for the third time that week and he woke up with another fantastic piece of work on his southern regions, Sherlock realised something was wrong.

He had to go back to that dreadful forest, even if it was simply for nostalgic reasons. He had to remember that beautiful man and finally bring some closure to his ridiculous obsession.

Right after he took care of that 'southern business.'

* * *

As soon as he was refreshed and dressed, Sherlock raced out of 221B and hailed a cab. Jumping in, he barked his location to the driver, before edgily leaning back and trying to relax.

When he arrived back at the forest, he jumped out and wandered towards the dark shadows which bordered the trees, not even looking back for a moment.

It was cool inside the forest. The trees kept it shady, and a strange wind blew. It was as though some kind of enchantment befell him as soon as he stepped foot in the place.

Using a keen sense of direction, he eventually found the spot where he had met the stranger that one passing day. He sat back down in the spot and closed his eyes.

He could hear a birdsong not too far away from him. A light breeze still blew around him, gently tangling his hair in soft knots.

His eyes slowly opened and he took in the shady glade of the trees above their leaves dancing in the wind.

He wondered if this was what calm felt like. It certainly was an attractive feature, a relaxation. He didn't feel pressured to recognise his feelings for the golden haired man, he simply admitted his love in his own mind and left it at that.

As he sat in the blissful silence, he suddenly heard the gentle strum of a guitar.

Sherlock sat up properly.

Was that his imagination? He listened, straining his ears again.

There it was again!

Sherlock listen in awe as a gorgeous melody broke out over the treetops, gentle chords catching on the wind and flying to his ears.

Sherlock jumped up. The odds were insane, he knew that. But who else could possibly be playing that lovely tune? In an empty, desolate forest, there could surely only be one answer…

Sherlock pushed through the trees, following the notes as they caught on the wind, chasing them as they let themselves become entangled in his memory.

He at last came to a thick glade of seemingly unmovable trees and bushes. The sounds seemed to be coming _from the other side…_

Sherlock didn't waste a moment. He began to push through the trees and bushes, moving forwards, occasionally becoming stuck and having to pull himself forwards through force.

Eventually, after much heaving, he sprang out the other side, and found himself in a protective glade.

And in front of him, stood the most enormous tower he had ever seen.

Sherlock could hear the lovely chords coming through the window. He smiled to himself, before walking around the outskirts of the tower, looking for a door.

He walked around again.

And again…

Sherlock stopped on the third attempt. There was no door. The tower was clearly-if you'll pardon the expression-impregnable.

Sherlock looked up at the window. There was someone up there, he could hear the music. And unless he was going mad, guitars didn't usually just decide to pick themselves up and play a tune for the hell of it.

Someone was up there, and Sherlock was desperate to know who.

And so-not giving one thought as to the consequences of his actions-Sherlock stepped towards the tower, before scrabbling for purchase against the stone walls.

And slowly, ever so slowly, he began to pull himself up towards the window of the tower.

* * *

It was windy that day.

John sat on his bed, softly strumming his guitar and lightly humming under his breath. He could smell the wet smell of rain on the way; feel the wind as it blew softly through his tower window.

He liked days like this. Days when he could be free to be alone, to not have to dread his father's visits and to just feel… alive. Even if it was only for one moment, that was enough for John.

As he gently played his instrument, he softly sang under his breath. Not real songs, but more so ones of his own creation, strange tunes and melodies that sounded gorgeous when placed with the chords he played.

He was interrupted from his daydreams when he heard a desperate 'shit!' and a scrabbling noise from outside his tower.

John paused his glorious song, before cautiously placing his guitar down and edging over to the window. He leaned over the side of the stone tower, and observed below him.

What he saw shocked him into oblivion.

There was a man, who was not his father, climbing up his tower.

John panicked. He truly had no idea what to do. He desperately moved away from the walls of his tower, panicking, practically hyperventilating in a mixture of fright and sudden shock.

For one awful moment, he almost wished Moriarty was there to help him, to tell him what to do…

_Almost_

John took a deep breath. He knew the most important rule was not to panic. He needed to work out if this person-whoever they were-intended to bring him harm.

So John desperately hunted around the tower, looking for a weapon of choice which would hopefully guard him from possible harm.

* * *

Sherlock leaned against the windowsill in relief.

The climb had been difficult and arduous. There had been many times when he had felt his foot slip, and had to make a desperate attempt for purchase against the smooth pavers.

As he climbed, he felt the wind become stronger and thinner the higher he moved. He could soon see for miles around, glancing in all directions at the lovely view which surrounded him. He even spotted London, lying on the outskirts of the horizon, far in the distance.

The climb was altogether tedious, and certainly not something Sherlock was in a hurry to repeat if he could help it.

But he had finally made it. And now, he finally got to have a look around the tower.

The guitar-he noticed abruptly as he gazed around slowly-had stopped.

Sherlock edged slowly into the tower. He couldn't see anyone in the shadows, and he suddenly felt strangely apprehensive.

"Hello?" he called against the darkness "is anyone…"

He suddenly felt himself thwacked round the head with a swift '_smack'_ and he fell forward in a slumped daze.

He desperately blinked, rubbing his head with a groan of pain, before he felt another thwack which rendered him unconscious against the stone floor of the tower.

**Note: Just thought I should let you know, I went back and made some revisions to my last chapters. I changed John's age from twenty to twenty-three, just to make this run a little bit smoother. :) Hope you still continue to enjoy!**


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock groaned and felt his head spin as his eyes began to slowly flutter open.

He found himself sat in a chair, facing the light which streamed in from the window. He tried to slowly get up, but he found he could not.

Looking down, Sherlock found that he was wound up firmly to the chair in long, flowing locks of golden…

Sherlock's eyes grew wide in excitement. His suspicions had been confirmed. After five years of wondering…

And now he was desperate to see the face which had haunted his memory for so long. He looked into the shadows of the tower.

"Hello?" he called out desperately.

He sensed movement in the shadows. Turning his head, he heard a shaking voice call out.

"I warn you, I'm armed!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in amusement.

"I'm not going to harm you" he grinned "please, come out so that I can see you."

"Do I have your word?" he heard the voice call out again.

"Yes!" Sherlock called in joyful declaration "you have my word!"

There was silence. The voice then called out again.

"Cross your heart?"

"I would if I could move my arms"

More silence.

"How can I trust you?"

"I can't move my arms"

"Oh. Alright then, but don't dare try anything, or I _will_ hit you again."

Slowly, out of the shadows, Sherlock watched a figure emerge. Sherlock's smile grew wider when the figure he had dreamed of for all those years stood in front of him, nervously eyeing him up and clutching a guitar for dear life.

Sherlock grinned. The man who stood in front of him was exactly as he remembered. He was still a great beauty; his eyes still a gorgeous blue and his hair still strong and golden. He was staring at Sherlock with a strange combination of awe and shock.

Sherlock sighed, willing him to relax "I promise I mean you no harm."

The golden haired beauty nodded, still clutching the guitar.

"It's just a precaution, that's all…" he stuttered.

Sherlock smiled at the nervous young man "in any sense, it's nice to see you again."

The long haired man blinked lowering the offending instrument slightly "excuse me?"

Sherlock felt his heart sink deeply in his chest. Did the man not recognise him at all?

Sherlock inquired gently, hoping that some part of the man's memory would recall him.

"Do… do you remember me?" he inquired nervously.

The golden haired man frowned. He bent down, still clutching his guitar, nervously looking the man up and down.

He searched Sherlock's eyes, desperate for a recollection. Sherlock spoke softly, the same words he had spoken five years ago.

""You mustn't be afraid of me" Sherlock smiled desperately "I know you've been sheltered, but I don't intend to bring you any harm…"

Sherlock could have sobbed for joy when the man's eyes suddenly lit up.

"Y…you…" he gaped, gently stroking Sherlock's cheek "it's you! You were that man I met five years ago…"

Sherlock nodded as the man stepped forward, practically shaking with excitement.

"I can't believe it; I never thought I'd see you again!" his eyes-Sherlock noticed-were watering slightly as he stared deeply into Sherlock's.

His smile was so endearing, his eyes wet with unshed tears and he looked so overjoyed that all Sherlock wanted was to hold him in his arms.

"Please, will you be so kind as to untie me?"

The golden haired man rushed to obey, looping his long tresses around Sherlock until he was untied. He stepped back, the same glorious expression on his face, and watched eagerly as Sherlock stretched.

Sherlock grinned at him, stepping forward and gently taking the golden haired man's hands in his own. The man's answering smile was so gorgeous that Sherlock was sure he was in heaven.

"How did you find me?" the golden haired man breathed in rapture.

"I heard you playing you guitar" Sherlock grinned in reply "your song was so beautiful, you have a marvellous ear for music…"

The man blushed proudly, looking down at his instrument "thank you… did you climb all the way up here just because you heard my music?"

"I climbed up to see the face behind the song" Sherlock smiled "and I know I'll be eternally grateful that I did…"

The long haired man smiled again, a lovely smile which lit up his whole features and made his eyes sparkle.

"I haven't stopped thinking about you for all these years…" the man sighed softly "I always dreamed I would see you again…"

Sherlock smiled gently "and the same applies for me, I missed you terribly…" he replied, before blushing furiously "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

The golden haired man blushed as well "no, no it's fine!" he blushed harder "I mean…"

The pair of them stumbled over their words for a while, both trying to find a statement which would fit appropriately with the moment.

Sherlock gripped the man's hands tighter, looking deeply into his eyes "I never told you on our first meeting, but my name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

The golden haired man smiled "that's a beautiful name" he grinned "my name is John."

Sherlock noticed that he was still blushing faintly and gazing deeply into Sherlock's eyes, a look of longing on his face.

Sherlock smiled, but wondered why the man was so persistent when it came to blushing. Sherlock locked eyes on him and deduced him quickly.

_-Sweating slightly near forehead_

_-Pupils dilating_

_-Crotch area seemingly tighter than before_

_-Blushing consistently…_

"John, are you aroused?" Sherlock questioned, rather astounded.

John stepped back, blushing even more furiously and breaking his hold of Sherlock's hands. Sherlock silently mourned his loss as John stuttered an apology.

"I'm sorry!" he squeaked "I know you probably don't feel the same way, but I can't help myself!" John stared down at the ground, panicking slightly "I truly am sorry, I mean, we've barely met, but I'm afraid I can't help the way I feel about you, for so long I wished that we would somehow meet again that I just…" he was panicking properly now, stepping farther away from Sherlock, as though trying to distance his feelings.

Sherlock clutched his hands again and tilted his chin so that they were staring deeply into each other's eyes.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you either" Sherlock blushed "I've had a lot of time to contemplate our meeting, and it seems that-against my better principals-I may have developed… feelings for you…"

He blushed, searching for the right words "I know people aren't really supposed to fall in love to quickly, but I'm afraid that I can't deny my feelings, no matter how hard I try…"

And before he could change his mind, Sherlock knelt on one knee and gently kissed John's hand.

John's answering smile was so beautiful, that Sherlock couldn't help but kiss John's hand again. And again…

"All this time" Sherlock kissed John's hand again, passionately, lovingly "I searched for you, but I could never find you… Now that I have, I don't intend to lose you again…"

John didn't reply as Sherlock kissed his hand again. Sherlock abruptly noticed that John's hand was twitching.

By this time, Sherlock noticed that John was shaking so badly that he seemed as though he was about to faint.

Sherlock looked up at John's face, and was shocked to see tears running down his cheeks.

"John, what's wrong?" he gaped, standing up and holding John tightly in his arms, panicking slightly "did I do something wrong? Was I too forward…?" Sherlock didn't know how relationships worked, had he messed something up…?

"No!" John insisted through his tears "no Sherlock, you haven't done anything wrong!"

"But…" Sherlock was confused why are you crying?"

John smiled through his tears, clutching Sherlock close.

"Because I'm happy!" he insisted, still with that same glorious smile on his face.

"Do people_ cry_ when they're happy?" Sherlock asked, still confused.

"Sometimes" John sniffed and smiled, trying to regain some sense as he wiped his eyes.

Sherlock pulled him in for a hug, relieved that he hadn't hurt John. John gladly held him back, regaining composure and feeling more at home in Sherlock's arms than he had ever felt before.

"Do you… do you mean it when you say…" John couldn't get the words out.

Sherlock nodded "I promise you, I love you" he insisted "I've never felt like this around anyone before, but I know I love you and I would be ridiculous to lose this opportunity to have a relationship with someone else who feels the same way…"

John grinned "in that case, I'm sure that I love you too."

The pair embraced for a moment longer, before John slowly led Sherlock over to the windowsill. They sat down, still clutching each other's hands in a silent rapture.

"If you don't mind me asking" Sherlock inquired softly "what are you doing locked away in this tower?"

John fell silent for a moment, and Sherlock was concerned that he had overstepped some kind of sacred boundary with the man. But slowly, John began to talk.

If John's solitary life five years ago had seemed bad, it was nothing compared to what it was now. Sherlock listened in shock as John told him about his life locked away, told him about his father and the rhyme that he called out. He spoke about his loneliness, his thoughts of Sherlock and his desire to leave.

Sherlock felt his heart sink as he listened to John's words. it somehow angered him to think that Moriarty-John's father-could keep him hidden away. It almost broke Sherlock's increasingly underused heart.

And so, in a desperate bid, he made the same insane declaration he had made five years before.

"Please John, my beloved, come away with me. I'll help you escape from this wretched tower" he kissed John's hand again, gently and lovingly "please John…"

John didn't hesitate this time. He knew he only desired freedom, and the man he had so quickly fallen in love with was offering it to him. John gently grasped Sherlock's hand.

"I will gladly go with you" John smiled, and expression of joy and love gracing his features "but… I don't know how I am to get down from this tower!"

Sherlock embraced John, holding him close to his chest and softly stroking his hair.

"I will return to your chamber at dusk in three days' time my beauty" Sherlock spoke gently "and I promise that I will set you free from this wretched tower…"

John's face was now in a competition with his golden hair as to who could shine the brightest. He-in a spontaneous moment-reached up and kissed Sherlock's lips, gently cradling him in his arms.

The pair were in rapture. For a long time, there was silence between them. There was nothing but gentle kisses, soft touches, blissful sighs and occasional minute groans.

Eventually, the two broke apart, and John gently moved Sherlock to the side, before looping his hair around the window hook, before he let his golden locks cascade back down to the ground.

"You must leave now" John insisted desperately "my father will return soon, and he would be furious if he found you here."

Sherlock nodded in understanding, gently pecking John's lips again and moving towards the window. John stopped him before he slipped down.

"You… you do promise that you'll come back?" he asked, sounding nervous.

Sherlock stroked John's cheek "I promise…" he whispered in reply.

John visibly relaxed, and watched as Sherlock slipped down his tresses, before waving and disappearing back into the forest.

John leaned against the window and sighed in bliss. After so many years, the man he had waited for had found him. And now he had promised to set him free…

John didn't care about the consequences anymore. All he craved was the freedom which he had been denied for so long. He finally had the chance to be set free, and with that handsome man at his side, John was sure he would be capable of overcoming any challenge that the world could possibly throw at him.

He knew he wouldn't have to fear the world. He knew it couldn't possibly be as horrible as his father had stated. And now that he had the chance to escape his tower prison, he couldn't wait to explore it himself.

John smiled again at the events of the day, before hastily drawing up his golden hair.


	11. Chapter 11

That night, John fell into a dream filled slumber.

He dreamed he was standing amidst a glorious sunset. Sherlock was standing in front of him, gently kissing his lips and whispering soft words into his ear, words which made John-in equal terms-feel aroused and blush with joy.

He awoke from his dream to hear Moriarty's voice screeching up to him from the window.

_John, oh John, let down your hair,_

_So I may climb the golden stair!_

John was in two minds about obeying, but in the end he let his tresses tumble swiftly down to his father, before pulling him up to the chamber.

When he reached the window, Moriarty chucked John another basket of supplies, a great grin plastered over his face.

"Oh Johnny-boy" Moriarty spoke pleasantly, running John's gorgeous locks through his hands "how you manage to do that every single day without fail, it looks absolutely exhausting, darling!"

"Oh, it's nothing" John plastered a fake smile over his features, lying through his teeth.

"Then I don't know why it takes so long" Moriarty's grin disappeared, and John couldn't help but shiver.

"Well, I…" John silenced himself as Moriarty came and stood over him.

He stared into John's eyes and John silently panicked, wondering if Moriarty could tell that he had had a visitor…

But Moriarty suddenly stopped his looming and moved away swiftly.

"You look happy…" he had a sly glint in his eye, one that made John feel slightly uncomfortable "is there something you want to tell me?"

John swallowed "n…no…" he stumbled over his words slightly, hoping that he wasn't about to fuck up his chance of freedom.

Bur Moriarty simply shook his head and petted John like a dog, before moving back.

"You are a strange man" he nodded sitting down on the windowsill and taking John's hands, suddenly looking serious.

"You are happy with me, aren't you my darling?" Moriarty asked, his eyes suddenly nervous "you wouldn't ever want anyone else?"

John felt his heart suddenly split. He swallowed nervously and looked back into his father's eyes, feeling an emotion he never thought was possible.

He began to have doubts about leaving his tower.

How could he abandon his father? After all, Moriarty had been the one who had raised him, protected him and loved him for so long.

And while it was true he could be abusive at times, John wasn't sure he could possibly abandon the man.

Moriarty's eyes were large and pleading. John could practically hear him whimpering, he looked that pathetic.

But something else in John's mind convinced him to not feel sorry for the man clutching his hands.

He had locked John away. He had kept him hidden away from the world, kept him only for his father's own purposes, as though he was nothing more than a gorgeous ornament.

He had convinced John that the only sanity and wellbeing he possessed was held in his tower, safely away from the rest of the world. He had convinced him firmly for years that the only person who could ever love John was him, his caring yet abusive father.

And while he could be kind, there was too much resentment built up in John's heart. For the years he had been hidden away, John had never questioned Moriarty's motives.

But now that he was locked away, he questioned them constantly. And with every question that passed through John's mind, there came that same determined thought of freedom.

So John clutched his father's hands, and gave him the untruthful answer he wanted to hear.

"I'll never need anyone but you" John smiled gently, cradling his father's hands within his own.

Moriarty grinned, the innocent look gone from his eyes. He cupped John's face in his hands and gently kissed his forehead, making John's insides wither in repulse.

"My golden haired beauty" Moriarty smiled "how you shine like the sun against the darkness of my life…" he stroked John's tumbling tresses "the secrets which slip from the golden key which adorns you…"

John pulled back abruptly before Moriarty got the chance to be more personal.

Moriarty smirked and stood up walking towards John, before backing him against the wall.

"What are you so scared of Johnny boy?" Moriarty asked softly, in a tone which struck John as how the Big Bad Wolf would have spoken to Little Red Riding Hood, slowly, sultry and sweetly. It made John shiver in a strange new fear.

He felt strangely violated as Moriarty ran a hand down his cheek, softly speaking the same, strange poem he had spoken before.

"The beautiful maiden with golden hair…" Moriarty recited "the bird trapped in a cage, the prisoner who resides by the window, combing their tumbling, flaxen locks, the eye of the beholder…"

His hand slowly moved down John's body, from his cheek to his chest.

"Such beauty…" Moriarty almost hissed, a jealous tone seeping through his voice "an instrumental voice which carries its encore on the wind, a tangled mass of golden silk, falling gently like yellow ribbons, twisted together to form the ladder which leads to the prize…"

His hand reached John's thigh and John suddenly-abruptly-batted his hand away in shock and disgust.

Moriarty's eyes grew cold and dark. John shivered, shifting away from his father.

"Pl…please don't touch me like that" John whispered nervously, as Moriarty eyed him up.

Moriarty smirked again, that same cold, dark, winter's night smirk that so often graced his features.

"Don't pretend you'll ever leave this tower" he half laughed, a cruel smile on his face "you're mine my beauty, from now until the day you die, just you and your pretty hair…"

John bowed his head like a beaten dog as Moriarty tossed his plait down to the ground.

"I'll return tomorrow" Moriarty grinned "make sure you're presentable…"

And with that, he slipped slowly down John's tresses, before disappearing back into the trees.

John fell down against the windowsill and watched him disappear, before sighing in relief and calming himself down slowly.

John wished that his lovely Sherlock would return. He needed to escape, before anything else could become of him in Moriarty's cruel embrace…

**Note: Yes, I did slip a line from 'Tangled' in there. Guilty as charged. So I think I should point out, there is no ownership coming from that reference!**


	12. Chapter 12

For three days, John endured Moriarty's visits, silently praying that Sherlock would return again and free him from his tower prison.

He would sit by his window, staring out at the world which lay beyond, dreaming of the day were he would be free to walk amongst society, live in complete freedom with Sherlock at his side…

It was all he could ever have wanted. And now that he finally had the chance to live the dream he had so desperately desired for so long, he wasn't about to give it up for anything.

On the third day, there was no sign of Sherlock, and John began to feel significantly worried. What if Sherlock wasn't coming back? What if he hadn't meant what he had said? What if he didn't have feelings for John…?

John began to panic. He desperately wanted to be free, to live out the rest of his days with Sherlock. He couldn't bear to spend the rest of his days locked away…

"John!" he heard a voice carried on the wind, from far below his tower.

He raced to the window and saw Sherlock standing at the foot of the tower, a grin on his face.

"Sherlock!" John breathed a desperate sigh of relief "hold on a moment, I'll just let you up!"

"No need John" Sherlock smiled eagerly "I've simply come to rescue you from your imprisonment today; there's no need for hospitality."

"Oh Sherlock!" John gasped, feeling his cheeks go red in adoration, letting a hand lay over his heart in love.

Sherlock grinned "I haven't been able to stop thinking about you" he said "you've been a dominant feature of my thoughts for three whole days, it's been most unproductive."

"I'm sorry" John apologised, feeling rather concerned.

"Don't apologise, it's a new experience" Sherlock shrugged "but enough talk, I've come to set you free, not discuss the finer points of my mind!"

John felt his grin get impossibly wider "and what is your plan of escape my darling?"

Sherlock grinned, before reaching both arms out in front of him.

"Jump!"

John blinked, wondering if he had heard correctly "excuse me?"

Sherlock sighed again "really John, stand up on the windowsill and leap off, gathering swift speed and momentum, before landing in my arms."

John made a face of horror "Sherlock, I can't jump from up here!"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked genuinely.

"Because Sherlock-choosing from the fifteen or sixteen reasons that present themselves-I'd kill myself!" John yelled, feeling appalled.

"No you won't, I'll catch you!" Sherlock grinned, willing his John to jump into his arms.

But John wasn't having any "Sherlock, at the speed I'd be travelling at, I'd probably kill you into the bargain!"

"For god's sake John, we're wasting time!" Sherlock sighed "your father could return at any moment!"

"Is this really the best idea you could come up with?" John yelled back down.

"Well I don't see you coming up with a better idea!" Sherlock retaliated.

John still hesitated. He knew that with the combined elements of his speed and the weight of his hair, the chances of either of them surviving the jump was slim to none.

"John" Sherlock called, softer this time "I promise I'll catch you, I wouldn't be asking you to jump if I didn't think you would land safely."

John looked down at the ground-which suddenly seemed so much farther away-and then back into his tower prison.

And against every moral he possessed, he stepped up onto the windowsill, feeling himself physically shaking as he stared down at the earth below.

And then he jumped.

John felt the wind whoosh past his ears as he fell towards the earth, his golden plait flying out behind him like a parade banner.

John closed his eyes tightly, desperately praying that if he missed, at least his death would be efficient and quick.

And suddenly, he felt himself land, his beautiful hair connecting with the ground seconds after him.

* * *

John's eyes opened slowly, and he found himself cradled bridal style in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock's eyes were bright, and he opened his mouth.

"Don't you dare say I told you so" John managed to breathe out slowly, before gently kissing Sherlock's lips, which were already turned up in a lovely smile.

"Alright" Sherlock agreed "normally I would argue, but this is a special occasion."

He gently set John down on the grass, giving him a moment to regain his composure.

For the first time in five long years, John felt the sun fully on his face. He felt the wind run through his hair, felt the soft grass against his bare feet.

He was free.

**He was free…**

_**He was free!**_

John let out a gratifying whoop of delight, before throwing his hands around Sherlock's neck and kissing him senseless. Sherlock seemed shocked by his sudden outburst, but eventually laughed and held John back, before noticing the wet patch which was slowly growing on his shoulder.

"Tears of joy?" Sherlock questioned gently.

John giggled and wiped his eyes "naturally."

After what felt like an eternity, John pulled away from Sherlock and stared around the clearing.

"Where do we go now?" he asked breathlessly.

"Back to my home" Sherlock smiled "well, I suppose _our _home now."

John grinned a shy, yet incredibly excited grin which made Sherlock's heart skip a few beats.

"We'd better leave now" Sherlock nodded, regaining his thought pattern "we have some arrangements to sort out…"

"Of course" John sighed blissfully "I've been waiting too long to leave this wretched place."

Sherlock offered John his arm-which John gladly took-before the pair made their way out of the clearing and back through the forest, arm in arm and perfectly content.

At least, for a while.

* * *

As they began to reach the edge of the forest, John started to panic. He had never gone so far in his life before, had never dared to venture so close to the rest of the world. All he knew were the tops of the trees and the clouds; to have such a sudden change to his life was suddenly frightening.

In response to his instinct, John pulled back and edged away from Sherlock.

Sherlock noted the loss of John's touch, and the fear in his eyes. He deduced the man in an instant.

_-Sweaty palms_

_-Shaking_

_-Red in face_

-_Pupils enlarged…_

_-Not aroused. Loss of breathing pattern and desperate… fear in eyes._

_-Has not come down inexplicably with a rare disease since leaving tower…_

_-Deductions point towards area of fear._

Sherlock smiled gently and took John's hands, gently bringing them to his lips.

"John" he spoke quietly "you have nothing to fear. I'll be right beside you through our whole journey, I promise that I shall keep you safe…"

John nodded, but still looked nervous. He gently kissed Sherlock's hands in return.

"I know I shouldn't be afraid" John whispered "but… this is the first time I've ever seen the world, the first time I've ever had the chance to experience something more than an empty tower… I've been staring out of a window for so long, I honestly don't know how to experience society…"

Sherlock smiled softly and grasped John's hands just a little bit tighter.

"I cannot deny that society will be a difficult experience" Sherlock nodded "but I will remain by your side. I can take it as my responsibility to protect you and guide you, if that is what you desire."

John nodded, his smile slowly returning, before he looped his arm in Sherlock's, and the two made their way onwards.

* * *

When they reached the edge of the forest, Sherlock looked eagerly down the road.

"I've texted a cab company" he explained "there should be a cab arriving at our location any minute now…"

As he spoke those words, a black cab rolled down the street and parked swiftly in front of the pair.

The driver rolled down his window, and got an eyeful of the unusual pair. He took in Sherlock's pale skin, thin frame and incredible cheekbones, before turning to look at John.

"Bloody hell, that's a lot of hair you've got there" the driver noted "do you want me to drive you to the barbers? There's one on my route, they could chop that pretty lot off for you in a flash!"

John anxiously grasped at his golden tresses; as though he was afraid the driver would whip out some scissors and slice his beautiful locks right off in the middle of the road.

Sherlock took in John's terrified face, before he gently lifted John's hands and freed his gorgeous hair from his shaken clutches, all the while glaring at the driver.

"Oh everyone's a comedian" he sighed, before opening the door for John "jump in John, he's just trying-and might I add failing-to be funny."

"Sorry mate" the driver blushed "I didn't mean to upset him, it's just my funny way, you know?"

On any normal day, Sherlock would have given the driver a deductive mouthful in retaliation. But he wanted John to remain calm and collected, so instead he gently pressed John into the backseat and nodded to the driver.

"It's fine. Can you take us to 221B Baker Street?"

The driver nodded, before flooring the cab and whizzing away.

* * *

John gazed out the window, watching the forest whizz by as he clutched Sherlock's hand. After a while, he fell into Sherlock's embrace, feeling nothing but simple content.

He couldn't believe that barely an hour ago he had been locked away in his tower prison. Now he was practically flying along the road in a cab, watching the forest as it whizzed away, before eventually disappearing from sight.

He was free now. And he knew that-no matter what-he was never going back to his lonely prison again.

In a moment of pure bliss, he tilted his head up and softly kissed Sherlock's lips.

* * *

Sherlock looked down, watching the golden haired man as he up gently, before resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock had only known the man a few days, but it already felt as though a lifetime had passed between them. Already he knew that he would do anything to keep his new companion safe, no matter what the cost came to be.

He knew that the next few weeks would be difficult, that John would have to adjust to society. And he would need to adjust to the qualities that came with relationships.

But right at that moment, with the world rushing by outside and the past disappearing behind him, Sherlock didn't think about anything. All that was on his mind was the beautiful man who rested beside him, with slight implications about how he was going to pay the driver when his wallet was back in 221B.

But at that moment, he barely possessed a care in the world. He was content, he was in bliss, in every sense of the word, Sherlock Holmes was…

Happy.


	13. Chapter 13

John couldn't ever remember being in such blissful rapture.

London was everything he could have imagined and more. There were lights, sound, music, fashion, sights, smells and _crowds_.

John had never met anyone apart from his father and Sherlock until today. And suddenly, he was thrust into a world where there were not hundreds, but _thousands _of people on the streets, all pushing and jostling, trying to get somewhere.

Sherlock couldn't help but adore the look of rapture on John's face as he gazed out at London. The pure look of innocent bliss was enough to make Sherlock break out in equally giddy delight and he couldn't resist pointing out landmarks to John as he passed them.

Eventually, the pair arrived on a quieter street. John couldn't help but feel light-headed with pleasure when he read the sign.

**BAKER STREET**

Sherlock grinned as the cab pulled up at 221B. He wound his scarf around his neck, before helping John out of the cab.

"Well" he inquired as the pair admired the door in front of them "what do you think?"

John's grin was so wide, Sherlock was suddenly frightened that his whole face was about to split in two. Instead he gently reached for Sherlock's hand and kissed it.

"It's marvellous" he sighed gently, staring at the building with such pure awe as though it was on par with the 2nd Coming of Christ.

"I've never had a proper home before."

The revelation was bittersweet to Sherlock's ear. He clutched John's hand, before he knocked swiftly on the door.

John watched as a woman opened it. She had feathered blonde hair, and a pair of motherly eyes which made John feel all the more comfortable with the situation. Her eyes sparkled as she took in Sherlock for a hug.

"Sherlock!" she grinned as Sherlock-John was surprised to see-hugged her back, an equal grin spread across his face.

"Hello Mrs Hudson" Sherlock grinned "John, this is Mrs Hudson, our landlady. Mrs Hudson, this is a great friend of mine-John."

John wondered if he should shake hands with the woman, but she pulled him in for an equally loving hug.

John felt himself melt into the embrace. He'd never had a mother, but he was convinced this was what one was like. Kind, warm and compassionate.

"Come in!" She grinned as their hug broke apart "I've just popped the kettle on…"

Sherlock stepped in swiftly. John tried to follow his example of confidence, but found that most of his golden hair remained out on the street even when he was right beside the stairs. John blushed and hastily tried to pull his long locks into the main hall.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in amusement, before he stepped forward and lightly placed his hands near John's, assisting him in drawing his golden hair into 221B.

Mrs Hudson couldn't help but give a surprised exclamation as Sherlock swiftly shut the door of 221B behind them.

"My, what long hair you have dearie" she exclaimed, gently stroking John's golden plait and revealing its wonderful softness.

John braced himself, wondering if Mrs Hudson was going to be rude like the driver. Instead, she gently released John's golden locks with a gentle smile on her face.

"You have beautiful hair dearie" she smiled as she started up the stairs to 221B "you make sure you take care of it now, golden hair is meant to be precious!" she gently caressed his golden locks one more time, before gesturing for the pair to follow her upstairs.

John blinked in astounded surprise as he began to follow her upstairs behind Sherlock, before calling out a grateful "I will!"

He was so surprised because he realised that his father was wrong. Perhaps not everyone in the world was lovely, but not everyone was some kind of demonic monster either. Instead, everyone was a unique formality. Of course some people could be horrible, but people could learn from their mistakes and become better people as a result.

All of these thoughts flew through his head as he followed Mrs Hudson and Sherlock to another door at the top of the stairs. When they reached a door at the top, Sherlock produced a key and swung the door open, before leading John inside.

The first thing John noticed was the _mess._ The place wasn't filthy, but there were all sorts of books, papers and other items strewn around the place. John glimpsed into the kitchen and noticed an array of scientific equipment adorning every available surface.

But despite the mess, John already felt comfortable. The place had a comforting feel about it, making John feel instantly at home. He turned to Sherlock and took his hand.

"It's brilliant" he murmured softly.

Sherlock blushed slightly "I'm glad you think so…"

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone went off in his pocket, indicating a text. Sherlock rolled his eyes, excusing himself while he answered.

"It's Lestrade asking about the paperwork" Sherlock exclaimed, chucking his phone across the room in frustration "I told him, I had to throw that man in the Thames from the bridge, there was no other available option!"

John's eyes grew wide "you threw a man in the Thames…?! What is the Thames anyway?"

"It's a river that runs through London" Sherlock exclaimed "and I only threw him in there because he presented a clear threat to the other officers. Their own stupidity wasn't going to save them…"

John felt a mixture of awe and shock, imagining Sherlock wrenching a man off of the ground and throwing off a bridge …

"John, I have to go and organise this paperwork" Sherlock interrupted "can you excuse me for an hour or so?"

John nodded uncertainly. He didn't want to be left alone on his first day in London, but he knew he had to accept Sherlock's commitments.

"I'll be back as soon as I can" Sherlock shrugged his coat on "make yourself at home, Mrs Hudson will make you a cup of tea…"

"Just this once dear" Mrs Hudson interrupted from the doorframe "I'm not your housekeeper!"

"Don't wait up!" Sherlock insisted as he dashed out of the room. John listened to his footsteps, before hearing the front door slam behind him.

"Look at him dashing about" Mrs Hudson smiled "I'll make you that cuppa dearie, won't be a moment…"

Mrs Hudson bumbled off downstairs, leaving John alone.

John knew that there was no use in moping around. Sherlock had responsibilities, and John had to respect them…

But John was suddenly worried. He knew Sherlock was only going to be gone for a few hours, but he was still scared. He wasn't used to life outside of his tower yet, and he wanted Sherlock by his side to comfort him. He knew he was being selfish, but John couldn't stop his thoughts racing through his mind.

John knew the best thing to do for his mind was keep busy. So he took seat in one of Sherlock's armchairs, before starting to diligently unbraid his hair.

When he had finished, his beautiful locks pooled out around him like a gorgeous river of gold. But John's mind was still distracted.

He got up and started pacing, staring out of the window, before flopping back down in the armchair again.

He didn't want to be alone. He knew he was being selfish, but he wanted Sherlock by his side. There would never be a time when he didn't want Sherlock's attention, but he wanted it now because…

John's mind flashed to thoughts of his father. John started to seriously panic-his father would surely realise he was gone…

John let his head drop into his hands and began to cry. How would his father react when he found him gone? He would be furious beyond capability of speech. He'd be demonic. He'd be monstrous. He'd be out for nothing but John's blood. After all, he had always made it very plain to John exactly what he would do to him if he ever attempted to leave his tower...

John suddenly felt a gentle hand caressing his cheek. Reaching up, he saw Sherlock knelt in front of him, a look of understanding on his face. John knew Sherlock could deduce him in an instant, but he still wiped his tears and clutched Sherlock's hand.

"I'm sorry; I'm just being selfish…"

Sherlock clutched his hands, gently bringing them to his lips and softly kissing them.

"My appointment at Scotland Yard would be dreadfully boring without you" Sherlock murmured "would you care to join me?"

John nodded, before embracing Sherlock.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered again "I'm being ridiculous…"

Sherlock shook his head "it is a perfectly commonplace fear" he explained "but not one which you ever need fear again. I am right beside you, even when we are apart…"

He gently let his hand trail over John's heart. John held the hand in place, feeling his cheeks go red in adoration.

"You'll never be alone again."

The pair remained in their position for a moment longer, before Sherlock clutched John's hand.

"Shall we?"

John nodded eagerly, and the pair raced off out of 221B. John could already feel a sense of excitement building up inside him as the pair raced off down the street.

With Sherlock Holmes by your side, everything was an adventure.


	14. Chapter 14

As they raced off down the street, John felt Sherlock's grip on his hand tighten. He could feel the excitement coursing through Sherlock's veins as they ran through the streets of London. Every time Sherlock turned around to check on John, John noticed that his eyes were sparkling in a way that John had never noticed before.

Firstly, John could definitely see why people wore shoes.

Secondly, John felt his hair flying out behind him, his pulse racing and his eyes growing wide in fascination as the pair raced through the streets of London. John found he was experiencing everything in a swirling rush as they ran.

"Sherlock!" John called as they ran "what exactly is Scotland Yard?"

"Scotland Yard" Sherlock grinned "is the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police Service. They're responsible for controlling majority of the crime in London, and none of them could function efficiently without me…"

"Show off" John rolled his eyes laughingly as they began to slow down. John noticed that they were coming into view of an enormous modern complex, a silver sign sporting the words '_New Scotland Yard' _placed outside.

"I'm not a show off" Sherlock explained as they set off up the stairs towards the glass doors "it's nothing but an apparent fact, as you'll notice as soon as you walk through the doors…"

He led John through the doors, into a well-lit, spacious and already bustling area. John felt self-conscious as he took in the throng of people around him, but with Sherlock at his side he began to slowly calm down.

The pair began to walk towards an escalator, but John was suddenly-alarmingly-pulled back by his hair. He gave a yelp, before collapsing back and hitting the tiled floor with a bump.

Sherlock spun around and hurriedly knelt by John's side, asking him if he was alright, before looking around to see what the cause of his sudden collapse was.

The problem presented itself in the form of a young man sprawled out on the floor, papers strewn everywhere. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Anderson, I expect little of you mentally, but surely you have the capabilities to see metres of golden hair strewn out on the floor in front of you?" Sherlock sighed "really, a blind man could avoid it."

Anderson cursed and got up "Sherlock, I hardly expected to come into work and bump into anyone with…" for the first time, he acknowledged John's presence "…such long golden hair. Really, your hair is abnormally long…"

"Brilliant deduction Anderson" Sherlock sighed "if only your observational skills were this efficient at crime scenes, then perhaps we'd be seeing some progress around this place."

With a parting sigh of irritation, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and started to lead him towards the escalators again.

"Who's that?" John questioned as they stepped onto the moving staircase.

"That's Anderson" Sherlock explained "ambassador for the Rights of the Unstable and the bane of my life." He looked down at John and smiled "a fine example of the kind of man you don't want to meet every day, but altogether too high functioning on stupid to progress upwards in the level of my worries. Also, don't let your hair get caught in the end of the escalator when we reach the top."

John nodded, carefully manoeuvring his golden locks out of harm's way as they stepped off of the platform.

"Lestrade's office is down this way" Sherlock explained, before leading John off down the corridor.

As they walked, they came across a young woman, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a stack of files in the other.

"Hello Freak" she blinked as Sherlock and John advanced towards her "here to sort out your little human catapult experiment?"

"Believe me Sally, my plans for that day did not involve throwing a man off of London Bridge" Sherlock retaliated "by the way, how long is Anderson's wife away for this time?"

Sally blushed furiously as Sherlock grinned "look Sherlock, whatever you're implying…"

Sherlock silenced her with a knowing look, before turning to John.

"John, this is Sergeant Sally Donavan" he explained "Donavan, this is John, my friend and lover."

John blushed upon hearing himself referred to as Sherlock's lover, whilst Donavan gave a strangled gasp.

"He's your _boyfriend_?" Sally questioned in amazement, her eyes as wide as dinner plates "did he follow you home?"

"We've got a flat share" Sherlock explained "you and Anderson should consider setting one up, after all, his wife's bound to wise up to the obvious eventually…"

Donavan huffed, before flouncing off in the opposite direction to the pair, her face bright red.

Sherlock grinned and grasped John's hand again, before pulling him into an office.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock questioned as they entered the room.

John noticed a man seated behind a desk, legs propped up and eating a doughnut.

"Sherlock!" he grinned "thank you for coming, if you'd just be so kind as to fill out the paperwork, it'll only take a moment…"

"Actually, it'll take far longer than a simple moment Lestrade" Sherlock sighed "however, I am willing to partake in this meagre little waste of time, as long as John is able to remain in the room with me…"

Lestrade's eyes connected with John's for the first time, and he looked surprised.

"Hello" he grinned, jumping up and extending a hand for John to shake "Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector. Pleased to meet you!"

John grinned in return and shook Lestrade's hand. Lestrade's eyes ran down John's exterior and grew wide with surprise when he noticed John's long golden hair.

"Christ, that's some long hair you've got" he grinned, gently reaching out and letting some of the golden locks slip through his fingers "it's beautiful!"

His attributes were cut short when Sherlock slapped his hand away, a dangerous look in his eyes.

"Don't touch!" he whined in frustration, almost like a child "only I'm allowed to do that!"

John was astounded, but then had to restrain a laugh "Sherlock, there's no need to get jealous…"

Sherlock blinked, before becoming embarrassed and directing his gaze towards the floor "I'm not jealous…"

John nodded, gently taking Sherlock's hand "I know love, I'm only teasing…"

Lestrade looked taken aback, but then he smiled.

"Well, I never thought I'd see the day. Sherlock Holmes, in a relationship at last!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes "it is only worth being in a relationship with someone if there is a love adorned from both persons" he explained "thankfully, that is the case with John and I. Forgive me, I am still gradually learning how relationships properly function and I find myself being rather… possessive at this moment in time."

Lestrade nodded "I understand, first love is a complicated thing" he smiled at John "if you want me to grab you some coffee, Sherlock can get started on his papers?"

Sherlock nodded unwillingly, and John agreed, before settling down next to Sherlock and keeping him company throughout the reading and signature collecting process.

Lestrade noticed-as he returned with the coffee-that Sherlock seemed perfectly content to work in any situation as long as he had a physical contact with John. In this occasion, it was John's head resting on his shoulder, John's hand gently clutching the one that he wasn't using to write with.

Lestrade smiled, deciding-in a spontaneous moment-to leave the pair alone in their own universe for a while. He silently backed out of the room, before leaving the two in their own silent embrace.


	15. Chapter 15

Moriarty was in a good mood that evening.

He smiled as he strolled through the forest, even humming a few notes of the song 'Staying Alive' for his own entertainment.

He grinned as he emerged through the clearing and into view of the tower. He anxiously brushed himself down, before calling out;

_John, oh John, let down your hair,_

_So I may climb the golden stair!_

He waited, but there was no response from the tower. No golden locks came tumbling to the ground.

"John?" Moriarty called again "John, let down your hair!"

Still no reply came from the tower.

"**John!"** Moriarty called "don't _dare_ disobey me! Let down your hair **at once!"**

No reply.

Moriarty was confused. And angry. Why on earth would John be so reckless as to disobey his orders? He had given the man consistent warnings about exactly what he would do if he was ever refused entrance to the tower…

Unless…

_**Fuck**_

Moriarty felt his heart freeze. He raced around to the other side of the tower and-pushing some ivy aside-exposed the door he had bricked up so long ago.

Moriarty-in his panic-clawed at the bricks, exposing the crumbling mortar and began ripping the bricks out of the wall.

After he had uncovered the first door, he raced up the stairs towards the other bricked up door, shouting and cursing the entire time. He ripped at the bricks furiously, before uncovering the room. He entered and glanced around the room in panic.

It was empty.

"**JOHN!"**

Moriarty screamed John's name at the top of his lungs, before letting out a hideous shriek.

John was gone. Escaped, evaded him…

He was furious. His beautiful, golden haired 'son' had escaped his clutches again…

Moriarty sank down on John's bed and put his head in his hands, groaning and moaning for ages. He couldn't believe that John had evaded his clutches. How could a sheltered man become so flawlessly swift in only a few hours…?

He cursed and abruptly stood up, pacing all around the tower and still constantly shrieking and lamenting about his loss.

John. His treasure, his prize, his beauty…

Moriarty hissed with discontent, before eventually flopping down beside the window.

He couldn't have done it alone. Somebody must have discovered his hiding place, found him and somehow gained access to the tower…

Moriarty's eyes blazed at the thought of John willing letting down his golden plait for anyone other than himself. He felt jealousy seep through his heart as he imagined someone else taking John's soft golden locks between their hands, effortlessly scaling the tower, sweeping _his _John into their arms…

Moriarty raged. How could John do this to him? How could John disobey him? The thought was almost enough to break Moriarty's heart. To know that John had _willingly _evaded him.

In his fury, Moriarty just about tore his own hair out. To think that John was out there somewhere, according his attention to another human, giving them the same adoration that he had so desperately desired… It just about made Moriarty throw up, thinking that someone was taking advantage of his treasure. That was _his _job…

But then Moriarty came back into his right frame of mind.

He didn't know where John was. But sitting around and moping was not an attractive option. Going out and reinstating John into his clutches was.

Moriarty allowed a small grin to trace his features. He was going to find John, and he wasn't going to stop until his golden haired beauty was back in his arms again. No matter what the cost.

And when he did find John, he would ensure that his 'son' would pay for his disobedience…

* * *

Sherlock gently stroked John's golden hair as he slowly rebraided it.

They were back at 221B. Sherlock had finally finished his paperwork and the two had made their way back to _their _home. John had to keep reminding himself that he had taken up permanent residence in the place.

He sighed softly as Sherlock gently tugged at his golden plait, before looping another long lock around in a twist, adding it to the slowly growing braid.

John felt he could lie this way forever, safely enclosed in Sherlock's embrace. He found his line of sight wander to the glasses of red wine which were seated beside the fireplace on the floor next to them, sparkling in the heat of the flame.

John was brought back to his senses as he felt Sherlock drop a gentle kiss on his neck. He giggled softly as Sherlock discovered a particularly sensitive spot and devilishly licked it.

"You're gorgeous" John smiled, taking in the vision of his lover in the light of the flame which danced in their fireplace "you're absolutely beautiful…"

Sherlock silenced him with a soft kiss to the lips, which slowly grew more passionate. John's plait lay forgotten for a moment, holding them in its embrace like a softly tangled golden rope.

Sherlock felt himself running his hands through John's beautiful locks, smiling softly as the plait gently unravelled at his touch. John couldn't help but break into a grin as Sherlock's kiss became more passionate, more longing, more loving.

It was the sort of kiss John had longed to receive for years. Not from Moriarty, but from someone who loved him enough so that they could willingly take him in their embrace and display their love.

John had never been invited to look at love from anyone's perspective but his father's. But now that he was seeing it from his own point of view, he found himself eagerly adoring it.

He wanted Sherlock. He wanted everything that Sherlock had to offer. He wanted Sherlock's attention, adoration and devotion, the kind of basic human attentions that he had been denied for so long…

He moaned as Sherlock clutched him tighter, gently tugging his hair and whispering words in his ear that made him blush more than the fiery embrace that the flame nearby offered.

After another long moment of kissing, Sherlock pulled away and placed his forehead against John's, gently stroking his beloved's cheek.

"I may possess basic views in the department of beauty" Sherlock whispered in a swift baritone "but I cannot compete with your beauty. Truly I have never met anyone in my life who can compare to you in that department" he embraced John gently "you are beautiful John…"

That evening progressed from a simple embrace to even more passionate kisses. And John was sure that he was truly in love with the dark haired, angled, blue eyed angel in front of him.

He had finally returned home, safe in his lover's arms. And he never intended to leave again.


	16. Chapter 16

The next morning, John slowly awoke. He blinked slightly at the ray of light that seeped through the curtains, noting the empty wine glasses and the unlit fireplace.

He broke out in a smile as he found himself cradled in Sherlock's arms. He gently shifted, turning himself around so that he was staring straight at the gorgeous man in front of him.

He lightly stroked Sherlock's cheek, smiling to himself. He knew he was truly the luckiest man in the world. He could hardly believe that yesterday he had been imprisoned in a tower as though he was some kind of damsel in distress (which-John supposed-he was) and today he was cradled in the arms of the man he was gloriously in love with.

Sherlock abruptly stirred in his sleep, before his eyes fluttered open and he found himself staring into John's bright azure ones.

"Good morning" he smiled, gently stealing a sweet kiss against John's lips "sleep well?"

"Magnificently" John grinned.

Sherlock went to sit up, but found himself loosely wrapped in John's golden tresses. John blushed furiously, anxiously unwinding his beautiful locks from Sherlock's body.

"I am sorry…" he explained cautiously "I suppose I must have been tossing and turning during the night, forgive me…"

Sherlock shortened his hastened actions with another soothing kiss. John relaxed with the knowledge that Sherlock wasn't angry at him.

He was used to Moriarty snapping at him for the least offence. His father would become unhinged at the slightest thing, leaving John in constant fear of when he would next snap.

But Sherlock was so gentle with him-a reaction that was rare from the genius-and John adored him for it.

Sherlock finished slowly unwinding the soft, golden locks from his body-indulging in the feeling of the beautiful hair against his exposed hands-before sitting up properly, turning John away from him and restarting his task from the previous evening.

John leant into Sherlock's touch and sighed as he began slowly replait John's golden locks, twisting the flaxen ribbons so that they became the strong, soft rope that one could so easily scale an unforgiving tower with.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone went off in his pocket.

Sherlock groaned and desperately tried to ignore the message. But his need for knowledge overcame his relaxation, and he loosened his clutch on John's plait and anxiously grabbled for his phone.

He couldn't help but sigh loudly when he read the text.

"What's wrong?" John asked anxiously, worried that Sherlock had received bad news.

"No! Don't turn around, you'll loosen the plait!" Sherlock snapped back into reality and anxiously grasped John's golden locks, resulting in a giggle and a fond sigh from his lover.

"In all seriousness Sherlock, what's wrong?" John asked quietly.

"Nothing is wrong John" Sherlock responded calmly "it's merely my parents being insufferable. They have invited us to a gathering at my childhood home. I have warned them that I have arrangements with you, but-as is usually the case with immediate family-they have very select hearing on occasions."

John smiled "I'd like to meet your parents" he spoke softly, gently turning his head to smile at Sherlock.

Sherlock's resolve weakened at John's expression.

"Well… Mother has been keen on me finding a partner for a while now…" Sherlock noted "Father was kind enough to lecture me on the subject, noting that I should have at least one relationship before my time on this earth is up..."

John gently stroked Sherlock's cheek, blinking up at him with those glorious blue eyes. Sherlock's resolve snapped.

"Alright" Sherlock agreed, responding to the previous text "I'll tell them we'll be present for lunch this afternoon."

John would have been perfectly content with spending the morning with Sherlock, but Sherlock had other plans.

"We really must acquire you some footwear" Sherlock anxiously stroked John's feet, which were rather battered after being subjected to the city's pavers.

Sherlock felt his heart sink at the thought of putting his lover through pain, but John-as though reading his thoughts-gently stroked his cheek and responded with a gentle kiss.

"I've been through worse" he replied gently. Sherlock swallowed anxiously, wondering what pain John could possibly be talking about. Whatever it was, it must have been at the hands of his insufferable father.

"I'll purchase you some proper footwear" Sherlock explained, sitting up and grabbing his coat "I'll be back momentarily!"

John nodded and smiled as Sherlock raced out the door, closing it swiftly behind him.

Perhaps it was the comfort that he had shared with Sherlock the previous night, but John no longer felt afraid of being alone. He knew that Sherlock would return soon. Until then, he could put his time to good use.

He lifted up his silken locks and began finishing what Sherlock started. He couldn't help but blush at the memory of Sherlock's hands running slowly against his golden hair, gently whispering into his ear, soft kisses being stolen against his lips. He could still see Sherlock's eyes glittering against the light of the fireplace, feel the comfort that could only come from Sherlock's embrace…

As he slowly finished plaiting his hair, he heard a sudden knock at the living room door.

John's head snapped up in shock. He knew if Sherlock was returning, then he would be inclined to simply enter the flat.

John heard the same knock again. He felt a sweat break out on his brow.

He remained silent. He decided he wasn't prepared to answer, not in any sense.

He hesitated as he heard a third knock, but restrained himself. He hoped whoever was knocking would have the decency to go away…

John felt his heart freeze as the door knob began to turn and the door began to open.

John felt as though time had significantly slowed in the last few moments. His heart leapt into his mouth as the door swept open to reveal a suit wearing man, outlined via a shadow against the doorframe.

And then the shadowed man spoke with a distinct, familiar accent.

"Hello _John_"


	17. Chapter 17

John looked the man up and down. His accent was undoubtedly similar to Sherlock's, clipped, well-spoken and obviously that of a higher class. Everything about him indicated _smart_, from his suit, to his demeanour and even the umbrella he was currently twirling inhis hand.

John nervously examined the man, before shakily inquiring "h-how do you know my name?"

The man in the suit smiled "I am quite keen in keeping up with the current state of affairs" he grinned "namely that of Sherlock Holmes."

John blinked "am I a current state of affairs?"

"You could be likened to such" the suit wearing man nodded "may I sit?"

John nodded slowly, unsure of what else to do. The man in the suit brushed himself off, before taking a seat.

"That's better" he smiled "I do apologise for barging in on you so abruptly, but I did have some states of affairs that I had to clear up, and it would be best suited to your interest to perhaps open the door."

John didn't answer. He took in the gentleman's eyes, before anxiously glancing at him. He willed him with his eyes to continue, and to his credit, the suit wearing man obeyed.

"You've become quite a _close_ acquaintance of Sherlock's in merely a few days. I was convinced that the man only possessed sociopathic qualities, but he seems to have created quite an attachment to you."

John blushed "I suppose…"

The man in the suit leaned in, still keeping his umbrella at his side

"So the saying is true" he smirked "gentlemen _do _prefer blondes."

John blushed, anxiously shifting in his seat and softly stroking his golden locks.

"I never realised that Sherlock had such an attraction to golden hair" the man smiled "thank you for that enlightenment."

John nervously looked up, but attempted to appear more confident. He eyed up the suit wearing man.

"You know, for a man of such sociopathic terms of endearment as Sherlock Holmes, I'm surprised that he can recognise beauty" the man in the suit smiled "but now he brings home a man who I'm sure could outshine the stars given the chance. I must admit, I _am_ impressed."

"What business do you have here?" John asked quietly.

The suit wearing man smirked, before examining the end of his umbrella.

"I might ask you the same thing".

John's mouth dropped open in shock. He bowed his head and examined his golden plait, before he felt his head tilted up by the end of the umbrella.

"You seem, if you'll pardon the vulgar expression, rather… naïve" the man replied slowly "I don't intend to insult you, but your views of the outside world-from my noting-are rather…unique."

John anxiously gazed at the suit wearing man. The man gazed back. There was something odd about his eyes. The words coming out of his mouth seemed harsh, but his eyes spoke differently. John knew he should be terrified, but he inexplicably knew that the suit wearing man didn't intend to harm him. There was something too open about the whole situation, but John couldn't figure out what it was.

"What do you want from me?"

The man in the suit smirked "my dear man, I merely require your assistance in a field of… difficult proportions."

"Go on…" John replied softly.

The man in the suit grinned "how intimate are you with Sherlock Holmes?"

John choked on a sharp intake of breath. He coughed furiously, before eyeing up the suit wearing man again, suddenly angry.

"What business is that of yours?" John asked, his eyes narrowing.

The suit wearing man smiled "dearest John, I merely have a preposition for you."

John leaned back in his chair "what sort of preposition?"

The man in the suit smiled "I merely require you to keep an eye on Sherlock Holmes. Report his regular movements, findings, deductions and anything else you believe is useful. I would feel privileged to pay you a hefty sum."

John stared at the man, but his face gave away no form of emotion. He seemed perfectly genuine with his offer.

And John was perfectly genuine with his answer.

"No"

The man in the suit blinked, and then burst out laughing. John shifted anxiously in his seat.

"You're very loyal, _very_ quickly" he heard the man in the suit state.

John shook his head "I'm just… not interested."

The man in the suit stopped laughing abruptly. Instead, he chose to examine John's golden plait.

"You don't seem the type to form acquaintances so quickly" he stated slowly.

John could feel his gaze, eyeing all over his body, examining him, narrowly sweeping over him.

"I've never really had the chance" John replied honestly "but I trust Sherlock Holmes."

This was enough to set the man in the suit off laughing again.

"You trust Sherlock Holmes?" he managed to regain his composure almost instantly "out of all the characters that London has to offer, you've taken up Sherlock Holmes' offer of companionship?"

John abruptly decided that the floor was a rather interesting prospect, and was examining it with great interest.

He felt his chin once again tilted up by the man in the suit.

"Why Sherlock Holmes?" the man asked quietly "why him, of the thousands of others. There are many more who would present a more fitting option than Mr Holmes…"

John felt his anger rising again. He swatted the man's umbrella away, and injected his opinion.

"Because he rescued me!" John replied angrily "he rescued me when no one else would. His motives may have seemed unclear, and his inner mind may have seemed questionable, but I knew he didn't intend to bring me harm!" John finished his sentence abruptly as the man stood up.

"Why do you trust him?" the suit wearing man asked again, slowly and calmly.

"Because he… he loves me!" John insisted "you wouldn't understand…" as he spoke, he imagined Sherlock's hands gently running through his golden locks, braiding his silken plait, reassuring him "I may be uneducated on the views of society, but I'm learning to understand love, and Sherlock Holmes insisted that he loves me!"

The man in the suit watched his reaction for a while, before standing up straight and nodding.

"If I truly cannot tempt you…" he replied, before heading back towards the door, twirling his umbrella "then I suppose you've chosen your side."

John watched as he disappeared out of the room, listened to his footsteps as they fell down the stairs and out of the front door.

John fell back in his chair and buried his head in his hands, wondering what had possibly provoked the suit wearing man to visit him. He was certain that barely anyone in London knew who he was, but he had untimely been proved wrong.

But he didn't have time to ponder the man's visit for long, because he suddenly heard Sherlock's reassuring shout waft up the stairs and into the living room.

* * *

"John!" Sherlock called happily as he entered, holding a bag out proudly "here's some appropriate attire for you…"

He took in John's nervous expression and frowned.

"John my darling, what's wrong?" Sherlock asked quietly, kneeling and taking John's hands.

John breathed out, before explaining to Sherlock exactly what had happened whilst he was away.

After he had finished, John nervously watched Sherlock's expression, nervous to notice his reaction.

He was surprised when Sherlock broke out in a smirk.

"Why are you smiling?" John asked quietly, his face a mask of confusion.

Sherlock grinned, before shaking his head and sighing "it's currently unimportant. I'm sure there'll be a reasonably straightforward explanation soon enough."

He stood up, pulling John up with him so that they were standing in the middle of the room. John couldn't help but giggle as Sherlock gently ran his hands through his golden locks.

"We're expected by my parents in roughly an hour" Sherlock explained softly "will you be joining me?"

John nodded slowly, a smile on his face.

"Firstly…" Sherlock smiled. He sat John down, before pulling out a shoebox. Opening it up, he showed John a pair of incredibly expensive shoes, obviously designer attire. John couldn't help but feel slightly emotional at the sight. Sherlock had gone to the trouble of purchasing him a pair of shoes…

Sherlock smiled gently, before slipping the shoes onto John feet and gently kissing his knuckles.

"Shall we?" he asked whilst-like a true gentleman-he offered John his arm.

John grinned, gladly accepting the offer and allowing himself to be led out of 221B.


	18. Chapter 18

The journey to Sherlock's childhood home (or rather, childhood _manor_) was uneventful. As was the time it took to pull John's beautiful plait in and out of the vehicle.

But despite anything that happened during the journey, they were standing on the front steps of Sherlock's childhood manor. The spot where he had grown up.

John had never seen such a grand house in all of his time spent in the outside world. The house had beautiful grounds, a gorgeous exterior and sweeping turrets which John couldn't help but admire.

Sherlock didn't bother to knock. Instead he swept open the door, announcing futilely to the empty hall that he was present.

John wandered in behind him, ensuring that his golden hair was secure inside the grand hall. As he gazed around the place in awe, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs.

"Sherlock!" she smiled, elegantly sweeping down and embracing him. Sherlock looked annoyed by the gesture, but to his credit didn't brush the poor woman away.

"John" Sherlock explained "this is my mother. Mother, this is John, my friend and recently acquired lover."

The woman turned to face John. John was astounded to see that she was a beautiful creature, even in the height of her twilight years. John stuck out his hand, wondering if he should offer a formal greeting, but Sherlock's mother grinned and embraced him as well.

John breathed in the sweet smell of her perfume, before they fell apart. Mrs Holmes admired his golden plait, complimenting him on its extraordinary length and beauty.

John couldn't help but note Sherlock's proud expression as he watched John being admired by his mother.

"Lunch has been prepared" she smiled "I'll ensure that the cook brings us an appetiser. Now, if you'd like to follow me…"

Sherlock obeyed and John followed, wandering through the hall and into another vast and beautiful dining room, one which John found himself unconsciously admiring.

He noticed an older gentleman already seated at the vast dining table. He watched as Sherlock's mother anxiously berated him.

"Sherringford, how many times must I tell you to smoke that ghastly cigar outside?!" she asked, obviously repeating a well-worn argument."

"Helena" the man sighed, before winking at Sherlock "if you want the exact numerals, Sherlock here will be able to note them for you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, before taking a seat and gesturing for John to sit down beside him.

After another round of introductions, John sat quietly aside Sherlock and observed the rest of the room.

He tried to imaging spending his former years in a place like this, rather than his impregnable tower. He wondered what sort of skills he could have developed, what sort of social interactions and formalities he could have been privileged enough to experience. He wondered how Sherlock could possibly take this beautiful home for granted.

He couldn't help but note Sherlock's sullen expression. He looked as though he wanted to be anywhere else but here. In retaliation, John slowly slid a hand over his knees to comfort him.

It had a completely opposite effect.

Sherlock's knee shot up like a rocket in shock, only brought back down to earth with a slight reassurance from John. John wondered what he possibly could have done to provoke Sherlock, but his lover answered that himself with the intense look of lust in his eyes.

John stifled a slight moan as he noted how bright Sherlock's eyes were. He stifled another groan as he felt Sherlock's hand run up his thigh, just as the servers brought in the first course.

"So John" he could vaguely hear Mr Holmes asking him a question "if it's not too much bother to ask, I must inquire, why have you kept your hair so extraordinarily long?"

John tried to focus on answering his question as Sherlock slid a hand back down his thigh.

"Well… I suppose it's become such a part of me that-_sweet __**Jes…**__-_I simply can't bring myself to cut it" John stifled a desperate groan as he felt Sherlock gently tug his golden tresses out of view of the table.

Mr Holmes nodded "I've heard of people forming attachments to their hair" he replied as John tried to avoid springing up and snogging Sherlock in full view of his parents "It's a perfectly commonplace attachment, especially in the female gender, although it's not unknown amongst males either. And your hair is such a rare specialty, so fine and golden; really it's a pleasure to behold…"

"It most certainly is" Sherlock drawled slowly, still gently tugging at John's golden locks "an absolutely beautiful treasure…"

John had had enough. He gave Sherlock a wicked pinch under the table, before sending him a look that indicated '_later'._

Sherlock gave a sly wink, before focusing on his meal again.

* * *

After his recovery, John felt himself slowly becoming more akin to the Holmes family. They both seemed to ask endless questions about his golden locks; _'how long does it take to wash?' 'Is that your natural colouring dear?' 'How to you manage to maintain such a silken appearance?' 'Do you often wear it plaited?' 'Doesn't it get in the way of your day to day activities?' 'On average, how long does it take to brush…?'_

The list was endless, but John honestly didn't mind. He was enchanted by the idea of sharing his opinions and views with another family, being a critique and interesting member of the household.

As they were halfway through their third course Sherlock had become enamoured by John's lower half. He had slipped off his shoes and had slowly been running his foot slowly up and down John's leg. John has been desperately trying to avoid moaning with pleasure at the same time as answering Sherlock's mother _'no ma'am, my hair is not inclined to become tangled in inanimate objects'._

Sherlock had a little smirk on his face as he enjoyed John's panicked expressions. John desperately shot him a warning look, but it became clear that the man had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

John had never desired someone so badly, but he knew he had to restrain himself. He anxiously tried to avoid pulling Sherlock into his lap and snog him senseless, but he desperately held himself back.

Fortunately Sherlock seemed to be thinking the same thing, because he slipped his shoes back on, grasped John's hand and pulled him up, grinning down at his parents.

"Please excuse us a moment" he spoke rapidly "John, I would like to speak to you privately for a moment."

He grasped John's hand and whisked him out of the room, almost tripping in his haste. John followed him into the corridor, up the staircase and along a corridor, until Sherlock burst through another door into a private (and-to John's eyes-beautiful) bedroom.

"This was my room growing up" Sherlock smiled slyly at John "judging by father's demeanour and his previous conversations; we've got roughly half an hour to spend to ourselves…"

John watched as Sherlock turned around swiftly, before locking the door with a sharp _click._


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock stepped forward, before cupping John's cheek gently with one hand and gazing deeply into his eyes. He then proceeded to begin gently kissing John, letting his hands run through his golden locks and letting them tumble over his shoulder.

The kiss started off slowly, a gentle expression of their love expressed in the simplest of formats. John had already grown to adore the pure, blissful moments he could spend with his lover, moments which he wouldn't trade for the world. And this was one of those pure, sweet moments which made him practically drunk with delight.

John sighed in pleasure, before letting his hands entwine Sherlock's waist, kissing him softly, sweetly, passionately. Sherlock was clearly enjoying the sensation, because he slowly walked John over towards the bed, before letting the young man fall backwards against the pillows.

John let a small giggle escape his lips as Sherlock began kissing his neck, softly whispering that he was beautiful, that he was more precious than life itself, that he was his Once Upon a Time… John could feel the heat of Sherlock's body against his; hear the glorious declarations which tumbled from his lips, practically akin to the way his golden locks had once tumbled from his tower window.

But that was in the past. And in this one moment, all he could see was Sherlock. All he could hear was Sherlock's whispered words and sensual moans. All he could feel were Sherlock's hands gently stroking his golden tresses. All he could smell was Sherlock's scent, a mixture of tea, faint cigarette and (surprisingly) roses. All he could taste was Sherlock's lips, sweet, soft and intelligent, just like the man they belonged to…

John whimpered in delight as Sherlock made a wonderfully clever movement with his tongue. He pulled Sherlock closer, passionately kissing his lover, letting his hands run through his gorgeous chocolate curls, replying to his compliments with his own soft words, desperately confirming his love for Sherlock, his pure adoration…

Before he could say anymore, Sherlock began anxiously undoing his shirt buttons, all the while planting glorious kisses all over his neck. John groaned and leaned against the pillows, anxiously trying not to draw attention from downstairs.

"Oh John…" Sherlock gasped "you are _beautiful…_"

John stroked his cheeks, gasping with pleasure as Sherlock trailed kisses down his neck and towards his chest. He felt Sherlock's tongue trail over his nipple, anxiously nursing the hard bud, and John just about wept with delight.

"Sh-Sher-Sherlock!" he gaped, desperately pining for the beautiful man in front of him. Sherlock continued to press sloppy and gratifying kisses against his chest, whilst at the same time successfully unbuttoning his shirt and discarding it.

He felt Sherlock's hands trail over his chest, silently declaring exactly who's property he was for the activities that were to come. John didn't protest, instead he lay back and allowed Sherlock to stroke, sniff, kiss and explore his skin, probably deduction unconsciously as he did so.

There was such a simple beauty which surrounded Sherlock. Of course he was beautiful on the outside, but the silent, glorious beauty which was reserved in his temperament for those he cared about was what really made John smile. And right now, Sherlock's private and subtle_ loving_ temperament was showing, breaking out like a golden sunlight against dark clouds.

Like golden hair against the darkness of a tower…

John practically sang out in delight as he felt Sherlock ever-so-gently tug his golden tresses, repeating his actions from under the table to more gratifying methods.

John couldn't stand it. He entwined his hands around Sherlock's waist, before manoeuvring them both so that he was on top, before giving Sherlock the luscious adoration that he had been receiving until that point.

Sherlock threw back his beautiful curls and groaned, his erection obvious and pressing against John. John nibbled and sucked at Sherlock's nipple, moaning around the erect bud against his lips. Sherlock desperately grabbed at the golden locks which cascaded over his shoulders, using them as a means of support and further enhancing both their manhood's.

"Fu… Sherlock!" John halfway began a curse as Sherlock tugged at his beautiful tresses, but had to restrain a yelp of delight as Sherlock cupped his chin and began kissing him desperately, eyes dark and hair tangled. John felt himself shiver in delight as he marvelled at the feeling of Sherlock's sweet, soft lips against his own.

"Oh-oh-oh John!" Sherlock gasped as he felt John pull away and attach his lips to his neck, sighing gently as he passionately licked and sucked at the delicate skin.

John couldn't stop a grin forming on his lips as he saw a mixture of pure lust and childlike innocence in Sherlock's eyes, a sight which he knew must be reflected from his own expression. He knew he was the only person in the world who saw this side of Sherlock, and the thought made him feel both sweetly emotional and dizzy with pure adoration for the gorgeous angel who lay below him.

Or, was previously below him before he made _that _spectacular move.

John murmured delighted phrases as he felt Sherlock set back to work, paying particular attention to his chest and beautiful tresses. John could do nothing more than lie back and mutter incoherent words of love as he felt his lover claim him for all he was worth.

Suddenly, their attentions turned to their erections. Sherlock gently stroked John's glorious artwork through his trousers, delicately whispering in his ear.

"Would you permit me to attend to you my darling?"

John nodded breathlessly as Sherlock stealthily unzipped his trousers. He gasped and sighed in pure delight as he felt Sherlock's hands trailing over the thin layer of material which separated his lower regions from Sherlock's hands, whispering delicately against his manhood like the wings of a butterfly.

"God, you're beautiful" Sherlock gasped, looking up deeply into John's azure eyes.

John was about to desperately declare his love again, asking his beloved to attend to him, return the favour with his own personal being…

"Well, well. This _is _a sight."

The pair's heads snapped up towards the doorway. John's mouth fell open in shock.

The suit wearing man from the same morning was standing in the doorframe, observing them with a slight grin tracing his lips.


	20. Chapter 20

John gripped Sherlock and panicked as the suit wearing man entered the room.

"Hello Sherlock" the man smiled "and John, such a pleasure to see you again."

Sherlock looked annoyed. John was terrified.

"Sherlock, Sherlock that's him" John hissed as the man looked them over with interest "that's the man in the suit…"

"I know _exactly _who that is" Sherlock nodded, before sitting up and rebuttoning his shirt casually, glaring at the invasion "what are _you _doing here?"

"Really Sherlock, there's no need to be petty" the suit wearing man rolled his eyes "I've seen you wandering around without a shirt on plenty of times. It has done nothing to aid my disposition. As for your-if you'll pardon the vulgar expression-furious snogging in your bedroom, you are an adult, and it is entirely up to you how you spend your time. All I will say is, please use a condom…"

"I know that!" Sherlock snarled "you're avoiding my question."

"If you must know, I'm here to join you in your interrupted meal." The suit wearing man sighed "you know how much your arguable excuses always upset mummy."

John's eyes grew wide. Sherlock looked furious.

"I upset her?" he questioned, raising his voice "it wasn't _me _who upset her Mycroft!"

"Wait, wait!" John gasped sitting up, golden locks tumbling from Sherlock's grasp "who's mummy?"

"_Mother_-our mother" Sherlock rolled his eyes "John, this is my brother Mycroft."

John gazed at both men in shock. Mycroft smiled, flicking a piece of lint away from his suit.

"Brother?" John questionably repeated.

"Unfortunately" Sherlock nodded. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"You can just imagine the Christmas dinners" Mycroft sighed.

"Yes… I mean, God no…" John nodded, trying to make sense of the recent confession."

"Look Mycroft, why don't you go and shag Lestrade?" Sherlock asked "preferably somewhere where I _don't_ have to watch."

Mycroft's eyebrows knitted into a tight frown. "For your information, I don't feel the need to drag my partner upstairs and make love to them in the middle of lunch" he stated "and also, how I spend my time with Gregory is quite frankly none of your business."

John placed his head in his hands and sighed deeply. Sherlock glared at his brother.

"John, if you would care to come with me?" Mycroft questioned "I have a matter I would like to discuss with you."

John looked at Sherlock for confirmation. Sherlock thought for a moment, before nodding and handing John his shirt.

John hastily buttoned up shirt, following Mycroft out of the room and down the hall. Mycroft led him down the stairs and out the door, back out into the garden.

They wandered through the garden for a while. John noted the storm clouds that were gathering overhead, the darkening sense that they brought over the estate.

Mycroft eventually stopped next to a garden seat, before gesturing for John to sit alongside him. John gingerly took a seat.

Mycroft stared out over the estate for a while, letting an uncomfortable silence linger between them. Then he spoke.

"I suppose you're wondering what my questionable _visit _was for this morning" Mycroft smiled, breaking the silence. John shrugged, but secretly the meeting had been lingering in his mind for hours.

Mycroft examined his umbrella "you see John, I am increasingly protective of my brother" he explained "his habits often have him associating with people who are… less than trustworthy."

John listened avidly as Mycroft continued.

"Naturally the idea of my partner coming home to me and gushing over Sherlock's new accomplice, described as-in his own words-_'a beautiful man with hair as fine as spun gold' _I was naturally curious." Mycroft explained "I decided that the most appropriate form of character checking was to pay an unscheduled visit and offer you an unprecedented sum in return for information regarding my brother. Really, I could call it a test."

"Did… did I pass?" John questioned nervously.

"Well you refused the money, didn't you?" Mycroft smiled "I believe that you've quite rightly proved your loyalty to my brother."

Mycroft was quite for another moment, but then continued.

"The way you spoke of your adoration for my brother… You say that he rescued you."

John blushed and looked down. His chin was quickly tilted up by Mycroft, who gazed into his eyes.

"I am not interested in dismantling your past John" Mycroft insisted "but my brother is known for being a saviour, I am curious as to how you were given the privilege of being rescued by Sherlock Holmes."

John blushed, before answering and looking out at the estate.

"I… Sherlock Holmes was there for me in a moment when no one else was. He gave me an opportunity to escape me from a horrible situation and provided me with a life that I could never have dreamed of."

"What situation could possibly have been so awful that sharing a flat with my _brother _could have seemed more appropriate?" Mycroft questioned.

John felt his temper rise. "Not being free to partake in society!" he shouted.

Realising what he said, he slapped a hand over his mouth.

Mycroft blinked "you… were denied the right of your freedom?"

John felt his face fall "I… I didn't know how to escape" he explained, before his temper rose again "you wouldn't understand! Sherlock helped me to escape from a horrible reality. He rescued me from a life of loneliness…" John let his head drop into his hands.

"He promised me that I'd never be alone again."

Mycroft looked down at the golden haired man, before standing up.

"With Sherlock Holmes' trust John, I can vouch for that statement" Mycroft nodded "my brother is a lot of things, some of them unnecessarily annoying, some absolutely ridiculous, but one of his greatest attributes is his loyalty. If you've proven your adoration to him, he'll remain an acquaintance of yours for the rest of his days. My brother is not one for forgetting an act of consideration."

John looked up at the elder Holmes "you… promise?" he asked, feeling rather daft.

Mycroft nodded "I promise" he offered John his arm "I believe it is about time we began back towards the manor, at this rate my parents will be questioning our disappearance…" he looked up at the rainclouds "and I don't believe that those 'locks of spun gold' would take kindly to being drenched."

John smiled, before getting up and allowing himself to be led back to the manor.


	21. Chapter 21

John and Mycroft re-entered the manor, collecting Sherlock from his sulking position on the stairs along the way. As soon as he saw John, he grasped his arm tightly and refused to let go, as though John was a lifeline in the middle of a vast ocean. Mycroft rolled his eyes, murmuring something about 'separation anxiety.'

John really didn't know what to expect from re-entering the dining room, but he really wished that Mrs Holmes hadn't inquired about his _'good old fashioned roll in the hay'_ whilst he had been taking a sip of wine. He could see where the Holmes brothers had gained their deductive reasoning.

Mycroft changed the topic to the weather.

* * *

Later on, back at 221B, John was curled up in Sherlock's arms. Sherlock let his hand run _s-l-o-w-l-y _through his lover's hair-his golden plait having long since been undone by Sherlock's gentle administrations-whispering soft words of adoration into his ear. John sighed blissfully and attempted to embrace Sherlock tighter than he already was.

The pair of them had removed their shirts quite early on in the evening's proceedings, and now John was softly kissing Sherlock's chest, ravishing it with the same adoration that a child would give a mother's breast. Sherlock moaned occasionally between his words, but aside from that no other sounds emerged from the pair.

They both would have been content to remain in their positions forever, blissfully trapped in each-other's embrace…

Sherlock's phone went off across the room, indicating a text.

Sherlock swore, before pulling himself up and wandering over to where his phone lay, discarded in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

"Goddamn it…" he hissed furiously under his breath, before readministering his shirt. John sat up properly and watched him as he made himself presentable.

"What's wrong?" John questioned nervously.

"Scotland Yard is what's wrong" Sherlock stated in annoyance "we have to go over there now, Lestrade's practically begging me to solve this crime…"

John re-buttoned his shirt and pulled a jumper over his head, before the pair stared at the pools of golden hair which tumbled around the room. Sighing, John began looping the golden tresses into a plait, but Sherlock was quicker, assisting him by braiding the spun gold into a long, beautiful rope. John gave him a grateful smile, before allowing himself to be pulled out of the door and down the stairs.

* * *

When the pair arrived, Lestrade gave them a smile, but his eyes were tired and John noticed the look of worry which flitted across his face. After a weak exchange of greetings, he handed the pair a file.

"An escaped criminal, birth name James Slenzik, known as 'the Red Dragon' due to a prison tattoo marking down one side of the face, has been held responsible with kidnapping two children." Lestrade explained as Sherlock flicked through the pictures.

John craned his neck to get a better look, and shivered. The skinhead, muscle bound monster who stared back at him was a man not to be defied. The most terrifying thing about him was the dragon tattoo which curled around the left side of his face, giving off a brilliant illusion of a fiery flame from hell.

"What does he want with children?" John asked quietly.

Lestrade grimaced "the Red Dragon has history as a serial rapist, his major crime being back in 2009 when he raped and murdered victim Kelly McCarthy on her way home from work" he explained "but our records show he also has strong history as for child abuse, and was sentenced to fourteen months prison for the molestation of a minor."

John felt his heart freeze. He looked back over the face of the man who stared out of the picture at him, his expression pure and raw.

"To our accounts he's kidnapped the children simply because they happened to be there at the time" Lestrade nodded "there are no family ties, no connections. Apparently the pair were last seen walking home from school. To our accordance they disappeared somewhere between 3:30 and 4:00 in the afternoon."

Sherlock kept flicking through the papers, noting a family picture of the kidnapped children and seemingly ignored the Inspector's words. But John could tell he was listening, absorbing every piece of information that could be of use."

"There will be a connection between them" Sherlock explained as he examined a particularly grisly photo "these children are middle-class, public school attending. They've had it drummed into their heads plenty of times-don't converse with strangers. They couldn't have been removed via force, otherwise there would have already been an efficient arrest. It had to be someone they trusted vaguely..."

Sherlock shoved the photos back to Lestrade, before nodding.

"Where is the spot where the children were kidnapped?" he asked.

Lestrade looked relieved at the conformation of help, before he turned and began gathering his team.

* * *

John anxiously followed Sherlock as the pair made their way out of Scotland Yard. He had never been in a situation which called for such extremities before, and his heart was thumping widely.

He loathed the feeling that somewhere-out in London-two children were possibly being subjected to horrifying acts of cruelty. It made him shiver in repulse.

What were they thinking? Were they even alive to experience the bliss of thought? John felt his heart clench. He didn't want to come across two lifeless bodies, dead before they even had the chance to experience life…

He suddenly felt Sherlock pull him into a tight embrace.

"You don't have to come" he whispered, stroking John's golden hair "I understand…"

John hesitated, but shook his head.

He knew what it was like to be held against your will. He knew what it felt like to be trapped. He understood exactly what is was like to be locked away for endless periods of time.

And now he would fight alongside Sherlock, if only to ensure that it need never happen to someone who wasn't deserving of it.

Sherlock understood his lover's motives, and gently kissed his lips.

"I'll ensure your safety" Sherlock whispered, again letting John's golden locks fall swiftly through his fingers "I refuse to let you take any ridiculous risks, do you understand?"

John couldn't help but let a weak smile grace his features "and leave you to enjoy all the excitement?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, before hailing down a cab that lingered by on the sidewalk.

There was a crime lingering in the air. A mystery that Sherlock Holmes was determined to solve.

Certainly before it was too late.

**Note: The criminal and crime mentioned in this chapter are **_**fictional.**_** Any similarities to any person/s-living or dead-are purely coincidental. **


	22. Chapter 22

It was a bitter day when the group finally arrived at the windswept location of the abduction. John anxiously watched as Sherlock wandered over to the cornered off spot and examined it.

John could hear him muttering under his breath, running through his deductions and endlessly examining the location.

Finally, he turned to the police team (in what was probably the most dramatic sweep of a coat _ever_) and announced his conclusion.

"My deductions are correct Lestrade. These children were not abducted violently. They were kidnapped slyly…"

"What do you mean _slyly?_" Anderson demanded.

"He drew them in with trust" Sherlock explained "look around, and tell me what you see."

The team all gazed around, examining the area.

"Nothing out of the ordinary" Lestrade noted.

"Exactly" Sherlock noted "this is a public space. No signs of a struggle, no format that suggests that the children were harmed. But look over at the road, and tell me what you see."

Again the group examined the area, but Lestrade shook his head again "nothing Sherlock, what are you hinting at?"

"Well Inspector, unless it's been raining in these last few days, that mark over there is _not _a puddle."

The team looked, and sure enough, a dark, conspicuous puddle remained littered on the side of the road.

"Oil" Sherlock explained "the spreading of the substance indicated that a car dropped by, before moving off swiftly. It couldn't have been parked for longer than two minutes, judging by the spread. The criminal must have dropped by, said something to the children which allowed them the trust to enter the car with him, before taking off again at a rapid pace."

"But, that could be from anyone's car!" Sally protested "besides, that couldn't be the Red Dragon's car; we've been monitoring his flat. He hasn't been near the place, least of all to take his car out for a kidnapping joyride."

"Oh come on Donovan, use your brain!" Sherlock exclaimed "this man is a criminal, but he's not stupid. Now, it's true that he wouldn't run the risk of using his own car, and there's no chance he could have purchased a new one. He's a man on the run, and clearly desperate for a way of income. Now, the only solution is that this car was stolen. How do I know that? Because no criminal-an experienced one anyway-would allow himself the risk of being recognised by associating with the public. So his most logical assumption would be to 'borrow' a nice car from some suburban neighbourhood around here. Now, he wouldn't know about the history of the car would he? So logically, he wouldn't notice if the car had a leaking tank, running the risk of spilling oil onto the ground and leaving us the perfect trail of evidence. No experienced criminal would make that mistake with his own vehicle, so the car is a stolen car. By examining your records-because I'm the only one around here who actually _bothers_ to do that-there was a report filed yesterday of a stolen car only five miles away from this location."

John blinked in amazement "that's fantastic!"

The entire group's gaze fell on him. John blushed.

"I mean the deduction. Not the kidnapped children…"

Sherlock managed a small, satisfied smile, which made John's heart flutter in his chest.

"Also" Sherlock continued "I've looked into the background of these two children. Boy and girl, twins actually. Both private school attendees, middle class family, stable home conditions. Now, what could this man possibly have said to them to convince them to get in his vehicle? He couldn't have tempted them with the classic 'ruse' line. These children have had it drummed into their heads enough times 'don't accept gifts from strangers' so he had to place them in a position of trust."

"Now, how easy do you think it would be for this man to pull up alongside these two children, put on an anxious face and tell them that one of their parents is in trouble? Children react when a person in a position of power is threatened. For a man to pull up alongside them and…"

"Tell them that someone they cared about was in trouble?" John finished quietly.

Sherlock nodded "precisely. Lestrade, you're dealing with a classic case of child-kidnapping. But what I _don't _understand is what the Red Dragon would want with a couple of middle class children?"

"Hostages?" Lestrade suggested.

"I doubt it. He's an escaped criminal, wouldn't want to risk drawing attention to himself. But then again, he has just kidnapped two children…"

John couldn't concentrate. He couldn't help but imagine what it must have been like for the kids. His mind flashed back to the stone-cold psycho from the prison photo, drawing up in a car, anxiously claiming to two innocent children that their parents were in trouble, you have to come with me now…"

"John?"

John snapped out of his stupor to acknowledge Sherlock.

"I'm alright" he murmured "carry on…"

Sherlock still looked concerned, but his attention quickly focused on Anderson, who was busy challenging Sherlock's reasoning.

"But that's ridiculous!" John could hear him mutter "why would two kids willingly get into a car with a complete psychopath?"

"Anderson, please don't talk out loud. You're sufficiently lowering the IQ of the entire crime scene. Lestrade is going to be mentally unstable in a few minutes."

"Hey!"

Sherlock ignored him. "Lestrade, I'll be returning to 221B. I should have sufficient information within three hours maximum."

Lestrade nodded, before turning on his heel and gathering his team together. John followed Sherlock anxiously.

"What are you going to do now?" he questioned quietly.

Sherlock grinned. "I'm going to contact the best people I know to assist with the task of relocating these children."

A few streets later, the pair came across a young woman, sprawled out on the corner of the street, her belongings scattered around her.

"Spare change sir?" she asked as Sherlock and John approached.

"Don't mind if I do" Sherlock grinned.

"What's the task?"

"Kidnapped children. Last sighted three streets away from this location. Any information you can recover will be of reasonable service. Spread the word and receive as much assistance as you can."

"And what's my cut?"

"50 quid, if you can find sufficient information."

The woman nodded, before darting off down the street. John watched her go, before turning to Sherlock, a curious expression gracing his features.

"My homeless network" Sherlock explained "they're my eyes and ears all over the city. Extremely helpful when I'm dealing with a case that has no leads."

"Will they be able to help us find the children?" John questioned thoughtfully.

Sherlock let a soft smile grace his features "many people underestimate the powers which are concealed by the lesser mortals. People wander past my network every day without a second glance. If they can't sufficiently trace these kids, then I don't know who can."

**Note: Hello everyone! I hope that you're still enjoying the story! I sincerely apologise for the complete lack of updates, but these past few weeks have been unnaturally hectic for me, so I haven't had much time to focus on my writing. Hopefully my schedule will calm down enough so that I will be able to update more frequently!**

**Also, seeing as I haven't written for awhile, this will probably not be some of my greatest work. This chapter is really monumental set up. _It will get better, _I promise! :D**


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock hurried John back to 221B, anxiously calling over his shoulder.

"They're very reliable informers. I have sympathy for the drug-addicts though, their information can be insufficient."

John practically tripped in his haste to follow the detective. His motions-like his brain-were whirring faster than either able body could keep up with.

"Do you solve all your cases with them?" John managed to inquire.

"Not all" Sherlock replied "but they're reliable. And the notice things that other members of society would neglect. They're not afraid to get their hands dirty, not afraid to enter the desolated parts of society, and their prices are affordable. Really, aside from Lestrade I couldn't ask for better associates… excepting perhaps, yourself. You're rather in a league of your own."

John felt a blush sweep across his cheeks and a smile grace his features at Sherlock's compliment.

Arriving back at 221B, John was quick to notice another homeless person standing to attention outside. His appearance was ragged, his hands were tucked neatly behind his back-as though he was contemplating the mysteries of life-and his eyes were focused solely on the ground, silently willing himself to avoid attention from the street. Sherlock however, took notice of the man immediately, before heading over to him, John anxiously trailing behind.

As they approached, the man lifted his head, taking in the image of the Consulting Detective and his golden haired companion. He allowed a small smile to grace his features.

"Spare change?" he inquired politely.

"What have you found out?" Sherlock asked quietly, hoping to avoid attention from the street.

The man grinned, before removing his hands from behind his back and revealing a well-worn schoolbag. Sherlock's face lit up in delight.

"Excellent, marvellous, _brilliant!" _Sherlock gaped in delight, before eagerly grabbing the school-bag from the man's grasp "where did you find it?"

"Dumpster in the backstreet behind Angelo's" the man explained "Samantha told me what you was looking for, figured I'd better 'elp out."

Sherlock let the man's grammar slip, before digging into his pockets and handing the man two fifty pound notes.

"One for Samantha" Sherlock explained "and one for you, for your assistance. And ensure that she acquires the money, because I _will_ know if she doesn't."

The man nodded, before scampering off down Baker Street.

"Alright John" Sherlock nodded "inside, quickly. We'll have to go through the contents of this bag, decipher every last item and see if it will lead us to the children."

John followed Sherlock upstairs hastily, his golden plait swinging behind him. Sherlock burst through the door of 221B, before clearing the mess off of their living room table with one swift movement, letting the items that littered the table top fall to the floor with a deafening crash. As John looked on in surprise, Sherlock dumped the bag down quickly, before opening it up and muttering the whole while.

"Right, clearly one of our kidnapped children's bags. Judging by the battered demeanour, I'm going to assume that this is the son's property. It can't be more than 5 years old, judging by the exterior pockets and design…"

Sherlock didn't hesitate. He instantly began digging through the contents, listing them off as he went.

"Lunchbox, maths book, pencil case, £15, keys, copy of 'the Fellowship of the Ring'…"

Sherlock anxiously looked through the items again, repeating them under his breath, whilst John looked on. There seemed to be nothing illogical about the items, nothing that was out of place.

Sherlock tentatively opened up the lunchbox, peered around the interior of the bag, examined the front pockets…

He suddenly jumped up, slamming the schoolbag back onto the desk.

"His phone!" Sherlock suddenly announced "there's no phone in this bag! Where's his phone?!"

John looked on in amazement "what has his phone got to do with anything?"

Sherlock calmed down slightly at John's confused manner, before eliciting a world weary sigh at the thought of his brilliant deductions going unnoticed.

"Do try to keep up John" Sherlock sighed "a ten year old school boy, middle class family, both parents working full-time, naturally it is only logical that he would acquire a phone for communication purposes with his immediate family and friends."

John blinked down at the items on the table, trying to understand what Sherlock was implying. He'd never owned a mobile in his life, although he understood how they worked. Moriarty always seemed to have a new one every month.

"But…" John noted "if it's not here, then where is it?"

Sherlock was quiet, clearly thinking the matter over with painful clarity. But then his eyes grew wide.

"Oh…" Sherlock grinned "Oh, oh, OH!"

"Sherlock?" John inquired nervously, as Sherlock's eyes grew wider and brighter with every muffled 'oh!'

He suddenly grasped John's hands and whirled him around.

"This 'Red Dragon' character is the definition of idiocy!" Sherlock stroked John's golden locks, a beautiful grin gracing his features "honestly, if every criminal was _this _stupid I'd be out of business!"

"What?!" John asked, suddenly feeling very confused.

"The boy's got the phone John!" Sherlock announced "hiding it about his being, waiting for either the appropriate moment to call, or use it to lead us to his location! And that _idiot _who calls himself a kidnapper hasn't even bothered to check!"

"He was careful with clarity to erase any evidence of the children being in his car. His most obvious solution? Dispose of their belongings. But the boy must have hidden his phone amongst his being, spying the most opportune moment when the Red Dragon was dumping their belongings behind Angelo's... And if we can just discover what sort of phone this boy owns…"

John finally caught on "so, you mean we can track them?"

"We're practically walking into the establishment!" Sherlock desperately kissed John, a brilliant flush guarding his features "come on John, we have to speak to the parents. Find out what sort of phone this boy has, what systems he uses, his codes, everything that we need to know!"

John barely had time to take in the bliss of his lover's adoration, because he was suddenly dragged from the room, back down the stairs and back out onto the street, his golden plait trailing behind him.


	24. Chapter 24

John didn't know what to expect when Sherlock insisted a meeting with the family. He knew they would no doubt be distraught over their children's disappearances, and probably graced with a profound shock into the bargain. But Sherlock was busy demanding a meeting from Lestrade, who was reluctantly giving in, regardless of whether the parents were able to provide information or not.

Sherlock directed their cab towards the family's house. It was a large, brick, upper-middle class suburban villa, set out in a quiet, London street. Sherlock thrust the driver some money, before dragging John up to the door of the house.

John gazed at the welcome mat as Sherlock sharply rapped the door. It was answered within moments by Lestrade, who had been requested to supervise the meeting.

"They're in the living room" Lestrade explained "they're pretty distraught Sherlock, the mother's in shock…"

Sherlock didn't stop to listen. He eloquently pushed passed Lestrade, before heading to enter the living room. John followed, drawing his golden tresses into the house and murmuring apologises to Lestrade for Sherlock's behaviour.

When John and Lestrade entered a moment after Sherlock, they found him seated and helping himself to a cup of tea which was placed on the coffee table.

"Ah John, Lestrade, you're just in time" Sherlock grinned, before turning to the parents "I'm Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, doubtless Lestrade has been explaining my motives for being here today, so I'll cut straight to the chase. What sort of phone does your son own?"

Both parents blinked, stunned at the rapid fire of explanation to have appeared from the man's mouth.

"Er… it was a smartphone" the father managed to murmur, his voice clearly strained with upset.

"Do speak up" Sherlock rolled his eyes "a smartphone did you say? And what was his passcode."

"26-5-04" the father noted, obviously shocked by Sherlock's dismissive manner.

"Ah, his birthday" Sherlock sighed "how dull. Alright, I assume his username is his email address?"

The father continued to give Sherlock the notes required for the case, whilst John watched quietly. It secretly made him feel depressed, knowing that these children where located somewhere, terrified, locked up…

He stared down at his golden plait. He had never really considered what his father had meant-when he had called his golden locks a 'key.' He understood perfectly now. Without a door, without salvation, his silken hair was the only form of entrance anyone had to his private universe. It was Moriarty's only entrance to his tower, where he was a private possession. And Moriarty was king. He was the only one who had access to John's charms. He was in a position of power, authority and sadistic pride.

_In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king…_

John looked over to Sherlock. He was oblivious to John's current state. For him, this was just another average day. Another day of kidnapping, another day of vibrant clues leading to a final solution. He didn't seem to realise exactly what was at stake.

John felt his stomach churn at the thought of those children, imprisoned, trapped, denyed freedom. He imagined their captor, standing close and whispering strange and luscious words, running a hand down their body…

_And honey, you should see me in a crown._

Lestrade looked over at John, who had gone strangely green, and was gulping.

"Do you want the bathroom?" he inquired quietly.

John nodded, knowing that if he opened his mouth, his stomach's contents would be displayed all over the floor.

Lestrade made an excuse, before leading John up the stairs and into an opulent bathroom. He stood back for a moment, whilst John raced over to the bowl and was violently sick.

John hung over the bowl, his brain whizzing, his mind malfunctioning. He was dimly aware of Lestrade patting his back reassuringly, before running him a glass of water.

As John shakily gulped back the liquid, Lestrade's presence was suddenly replaced by a familiar, coat wearing detective.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John managed a shaky nod "I'm fine…"

Sherlock shook his head "you're not really, are you?" he turned to Lestrade "will you excuse us for a moment? I'll be back to continue this investigation momentarily."

Lestrade willingly left the room, whilst Sherlock sat on the bathroom floor, cradling John alongside him.

"Memories?" Sherlock deduced.

John nodded, before shaking his head.

"It's brutal Sherlock" he managed to stutter "how could anyone _willingly _lock someone away? Keep them hidden when they don't deserve it?!"

He realised he was raising his voice, so he toned it down and mumbled against Sherlock's neck.

"I'll never forgive myself" he whispered "if it was my fault that something happened to these children. They don't deserve to be locked up..." John's voice raised again "that _bastard_ Red Dragon does!"

Sherlock rubbed John's back, trying to calm him down "I understand your frustration" he murmured "but mark my words John, I am doing everything in my power to ensure that these children are returned safely, and that justice prevails."

John nodded slowly, calming himself down. He felt Sherlock's lips flutter against his cheek. He managed a soft smile, but his heart was still dimmed.

Sherlock saw his expression, and gently stroked John's golden locks.

"Do you remember the day that we met again? Back in your tower?"

John nodded, smiling at the memory.

"When I saw you emerge from the shadows, just as beautiful as the first time I saw you, your hair a tumbling cascade of gold, I felt a relief-a pure insane happiness-that I hadn't been granted in years. Wouldn't you like to grant that same form of determination for these children John?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, wouldn't you like to grant that same sense of salvation?" Sherlock grasped John's hands "let justice prevail, set another free?"

John saw his reasoning. He shakily got to his feet, before embracing Sherlock. His breath smelt vaguely of sick, but Sherlock didn't care.

Eventually, the pair broke apart, and Sherlock slowly kissed John's neck, letting his senses linger against the luscious, golden tresses.

Suddenly, Lestrade came running into the bathroom. Sherlock hurriedly pulled away from John, not wanting Lestrade to note their more intimate moments.

"Sherlock" Lestrade noted "we've got something. A lead I mean."

Sherlock's eyes lit up in a grin. John smiled with a blessed sense of relief.

"Whereabouts?" Sherlock inquired.

"Disused factory, just outside of London. It was abandoned after a fire in 2011."

Sherlock jumped to attention. "Where's the phone? Do you have a sufficient tracking location?"

Lestrade grinned, before showing Sherlock the map template he had successfully altered, complete with a destination route.

Sherlock stared at the map for a moment, before tossing the phone back to Lestrade "the information is indeed sufficient. Let's go, there's no use wasting time when what little we have is so valuable."

And with those words, Sherlock swept out, coat fluttering elegantly behind him.

**Note: Hooray! Thankfully-my dear followers/favouriters/reviewers etc-I have successfully managed to write my latest chapter ahead of time throws confetti into air in abundant celebration)! My workload/illness has now lessened to the extent where I can successfully write again, so _hopefully_ we won't have another situation featuring delayed chapters. Here's hoping that you'll continue to enjoy! :D**


	25. Chapter 25

They were in the back-seat of Lestrade's police cruiser. Sherlock and Lestrade sat in the front, discussing directions and forced points of entry. John sat in the back, golden hair tumbling around the interior, and tried to remain calm.

He had no idea what they were in for. Judging by Lestrade's words, this man would be armed. And dangerous. And probably-more likely than not-wielding a gun.

John could feel his stomach doing flips from the anxiety. He knew that the situation was deadly. He understood the consequences. But the worst case scenarios were still flittering around his head, making it impossible for him to concentrate.

What if one of them was injured, or killed? What if they were too late? What if Sherlock…

John pushed the thoughts out of his head. There was no way he was going to force himself of think of Sherlock's demise.

Eventually, well after the daylight had transformed into the night, they pulled up at a secluded location. They got out, and John noticed that the car was well shaded and covered by trees.

"Decreases the chanced of an alarm being raised" Sherlock noted "come on…"

He sped off, with Lestrade and John a few metres behind.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, and gave a joyful 'aha!'

"Keep it down you idiot!" Lestrade hissed "do you want to get shot at?"

Sherlock shook his head, before point out a shadowy object ahead of them in the trees "there's the final proof and evidence Lestrade."

Lestrade and John looked. Parked between the trees, was a silver Lexus.

"He kidnapped them in a _Lexus?_" Lestrade questioned in disbelief.

Sherlock darted over, before admiring the exhaust pipes.

"It's leaking Lestrade. This is the stolen car, and no mistake. You'll find masses of forensic evidence in here. But the question still remains-where are the children?"

Sherlock consulted the tracking location on the phone, zooming into the image and making so rough estimates under his breath.

"They're roughly a mile away from us now" Sherlock deduced "come one, we've no time to waste."

They set off through the undergrowth again. John was solemnly reminded of the dark forest which had surrounded his tower for years. In retrospect, he moved closer to Sherlock, nervously clutching at his coat.

They eventually emerged out of the undergrowth, and were presented with the massive, industrial steel and chain aspects of an abandoned factory. Remnants of the forgotten fire still lingered there. Half of the building was charcoal black, and the other half was desolate and empty. In the darkness of the night which surrounded them, it would have looked more at home in a horror film.

"This looks like the place" Lestrade whistled.

"Fantastic deduction" Sherlock rolled his eyes "Lestrade, have your gun drawn. I don't know where this maniac will be when we enter, so it's best to be evenly prepared. John, remain close to me."

The three of them entered the building, allowing their footsteps to fall as quietly as they could. John stared around the empty space, nervously eyeing up the burnt, darkened interior.

A sudden clang startled all three men out of their wits. Lestrade cocked his gun, but there was no source of the sound available.

They stood in silence, contemplating on retrieving their breath, whilst Sherlock gazed around the interior.

"It's quiet" he hissed delicately.

"Well, obviously" Lestrade hissed back in annoyance.

"No" Sherlock retaliated almost silently "it's _too_ quiet."

Sherlock stared around the interior of the building again. Lestrade and John copied, staring into the inky blackness and trying to make out a sign of movement.

"It's _too _quiet…" Sherlock whispered again.

"What are you hinting at?!" Lestrade hissed, a nervous tone creeping into his voice.

Sherlock was silent. Slowly, he shifted his gaze from the interior of the building, back into Lestrade and John's nervous eyes.

"He's watching us…" Sherlock whispered.

Suddenly, a blood-curdling scream was elicited from the interior of the factory, and before any of them could react, Sherlock was dragged backwards into the inky blackness which surrounded them.

* * *

"SHERLOCK!" John screamed.

He could hear Sherlock's muffled cries in the midnight interior. Lestrade grasped John's arm, pulled him close and cocked his gun again.

"Show yourself!" he yelled at the darkness.

They couldn't see anything, not even make out the figure out in the shadows. All they could hear was the difficult bearings of a struggle.

"_Lestrade, John!" _they could hear Sherlock yelling. His voice was muffled, as though someone was choking him "_run! Both of you run…!"_

Before either of them could contemplate making a move, they heard the brutal sound of a gun going off.

"_SHERLOCK!" _

John felt faint. He couldn't move. He screamed his name again, hardly daring to believe what he had just heard.

He suddenly felt Lestrade push him in the back, edging him away.

"Run John!" he yelled "go and hide, I'll be with you as soon as I can."

"But, Sherlock…" John choked out, tears in his eyes.

Lestrade bowed his head, cheeks flushed "I'll do everything I can. I'm armed John, you are defenceless. Protect yourself…"

"But…"

"I'm not going to risk losing two lives!" Lestrade yelled.

John didn't hesitate. He took off in a run, away from Lestrade and away from the fatal bullet. He raced through long, darkened corridors, his golden hair flowing behind him.

He clattered up a pathway of steel steps, before battering open a heavy door. He slammed it shut, and sank to the floor, drawing his knees up to his chin.

He slapped a hand over his mouth, before letting his tears fall from his eyes, not wanting to give away a hint of his location.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, he managed to pull himself up and wipe his eyes. He cautiously peeled open the door, before stepping out into the pitch black corridor.

He knew he would be useless just sitting around. They had come here with a goal of rescuing kidnapped children, and that was what John intended to do.

* * *

He edged cautiously down the corridor, having a miniature heart attack with every creak and groan he heard. He opened doors, peeked inside, cautiously leaned over railings and examined the area below.

He couldn't hear anything now. The factory was as silent as a crypt.

No…

John strained his ears. He could hear something. It was so faint, so muffled, that he almost missed it. But he could hear something.

A faint sobbing.

He edged across the floor, cautiously, examining the area around him, before he finally came to a door. Pushing it open, he stepped inside into the blackness.

He was in a large, empty room. Burnt extracts of renovations still lingered there, including wooden building frames and burnt sheets to avoid paint spills. In the midst of the room, a large section of the floor had been ripped up, in preparation to be repaired.

And from the pit, John could hear a muffled crying.

Edging his way across the floor, he cautiously examined the interior of the pit. When his eyes adjusted, he saw a horrific sight.

A young boy and girl, huddled together and shivering. The little girl was crying, hunched up against her brother, and the boy was holding her close. They were both bruised and battered, and the boy had a long, bloody gash across the right side of his face.

They were staring up at John tearfully. John looked back down at them, feeling close to tears himself.

There was a long silence, but then the little boy spoke.

"Are you an angel?" he whispered.

John shook his head, swallowing a lump in his throat "no, but I am a friend. I'm here to rescue you."

The look of relief on both children's faces broke John's heart. He couldn't believe the horrific torture the two must have gone through.

"What are your names?" John asked quietly, slowly retrieving his bearings.

"I'm Arthur" the little boy nodded "and this is my sister Charlotte. What's your name?"

"I'm John"

"Are you alone?" Arthur asked quietly.

John felt his breath catch in his throat. He quickly shook his head, repressing his tears.

"Not anymore."

Arthur managed a faint smile "will you rescue us now, please?"

John obliged. Looking around the interior of the room, he realised there was no form of rope around the place, or any form of item that might have been useful in pulling the children from the pit. In desperation, his eyes fell to his golden plait.

"Here…" he whispered, tossing his golden hair into the pit and letting it tumble down to the children "climb up this."

The pair stared at the silken tresses, eyes wide.

"Is that… your _hair?"_ Charlotte finally spoke at last, her voice edged with awe.

John nodded "climb up. It won't hurt a bit."

Charlotte went first. She hesitantly grasped the golden tresses-as though she was afraid of hurting John-before she began to steadily climb. John assisted her by pulling up his tresses, and soon she was on steady ground again. John tossed his golden locks back down to Arthur, who then proceeded to clamber up ecstatically.

When both children were safely beside him, John hauled his golden tresses out of the pit, before grasping both children's hands and leading them out of the darkened room.

"You must stay quiet" John warned cautiously "otherwise, the Red Dragon will hear us…"

In retaliation to John's statement, he felt the pair clutch his hands even tighter.

* * *

They slunk silently along the edge of the corridor, listening out for every creak and grumble that was emitted from deep within the factory.

The corridor ended, and they wandered onto a metal walkway. John listened to every pratfall, every distant creak, every near silent…

John suddenly bumped into another body in the dark, and _everyone _screamed.

"Ssh!" he heard a familiar voice call out "John, it's only me!"

"Lestrade?"

"The one and only."

"Thank _God" _John almost wept "Lestrade, I've got the kids."

Lestrade glanced down at the pair, who were still recovering from their shock.

"Christ" he murmured, noting how battered and bruised they were "we've got to get them out of here _now_."

"But…" John began "what about Sherlock?"

He heard Lestrade's breath catch in the dark.

"John… I can't find Sherlock."

John felt all of the air whoosh out of him. His limbs suddenly felt floppy and useless.

"But…"

"John, we cannot waste time looking for him. There are four lives at stake here. We've got to get out _now._"

John felt his eyes fill with tears. He thought of leaving Sherlock, leaving him behind in this burned wreck…

Who was to say that the Consulting Detective was even _alive?_

And so, he allowed Lestrade to cautiously lead them to the exit. Tears burned behind his eyes as they arrived at the doorway, illuminated by a pale moonlight.

Suddenly, something inside him snapped. He pushed the children back towards Lestrade, before darting back inside the factory.

"John?! JOHN!" Lestrade yelled **"come back!"**

"Go!" John turned his head momentarily "get the kids to a safe location. I'm not leaving without Sherlock."

And with that, he darted back into the darkened factory.

Lestrade stood, a range of conflicting emotions flickering across his face. Finally, he grasped the children's hands and carried them away, before anxiously placing a call out to the members of his team.

"This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. I'm requesting urgent assistance on the Red Dragon's case. **CODE RED**. All officers in the area; respond _immediately_!"

* * *

John raced back through the pitch black factory. His heart was drumming in his ears, and a painful feeling lingered with it.

He had no idea what he was expecting to see. Would Sherlock be safe, alive? Or would he be presented with a corpse…?

He darted between rooms, no longer caring about his own safety. All he cared about was Sherlock. _His_ Sherlock…

He threw open doors, urgently calling Sherlock's name, and receiving no response. He climbed up staircases, raced along railings, thumped along corridors, all in the hope that Sherlock would be within his presence.

He threw open another desolate door, and there he was. Mouth gagged, tied brutally to a chair, face bruised and bloodied, eyes wide.

As soon as he saw John, he began shrieking into the gag. John raced over to him, before hastily removing the gag from his mouth.

"Sherlock…"

"John, run!" Sherlock cried "John, it's a trap, he's…"

The door to the room suddenly slammed shut, and a booming voice echoed.

"Hello _John."_

* * *

John spun around. The Red Dragon's image was every bit as fearsome as his police photos had detailed. The furious eyes, the snapping jaws and-most terrifying of all-the fearsome dragon tattoo which curled around the left side of his face, leaving the image of blood caressing his cheek and scarlet hatred blazing in his eyes.

John almost fainted from fright. But he shook his head and stood his ground.

"Let him go" he choked out, trying to sound confident, but letting a wavering fright linger in his voice.

"Oh, how _sweet_" the Red Dragon giggled maniacally "the forbidden lover has come for his songbird." He tripped around John, making the poor man flinch from the intimidating presence, before he slowly ran a grimy hand through Sherlock's velvet mop of curls "he certainly sings like a songbird, shrieked the entire time I tied him up. I had to silence his song in the end…"

John felt fury build up inside him "I said, let him GO!"

The Red Dragon was silent for a moment, before he burst out laughing.

"You're too late Romeo. The cat got your beautiful songbird, and he'll scratch your eyes out too."

John looked down at Sherlock. His eyes were filled with a forbidden fury, yet John could see something more. A hint of realisation lingered within his view.

"Sherlock?" John whispered.

Sherlock struggled with his restraints, before turning to the Red Dragon.

"Why did you kidnap those children?"

The Red Dragon smiled "I thought you would have worked that out by now, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock's face crinkled with disgust "I want to hear you say it."

The Red Dragon smirked "why do you think? I was drawing attention back where it belongs. I'm a free man now, and I was always deserving of attention. The media loved me when I murdered Kelly McCarthy. I'll make them love me again. Only this time, I'll get away with it."

"And yet, you didn't even think to check that the boy had his mobile."

The Red Dragon's face contorted with fury. John felt fear cut through him like a knife.

"You're not working alone" Sherlock smirked "**someone** broke you out of prison, but the kidnapping was your **own** doing. Media fanatic, judging by your right hand, you _crave _attention. The person who released you warned you against the idea, but you defied them, didn't you? You're too focused on your success to even consider the consequences…"

Sherlock was suddenly smacked across the face with the butt of his gun. John gave a cry as Sherlock's vision slurred.

"You shut your filthy fucking mouth" the Red Dragon hissed "or I'll beat the shit out of you, and kill your precious _lover-boy _over there into the bargain!"

Sherlock snapped his mouth shut. The Red Dragon and John were left to stand each other off.

Keeping the gun pointed at John, the Red Dragon leant down and untied Sherlock, before hoisting him to his feet. Sherlock swayed from the pain, but remained diligent.

"Now _John" _he spat "who should I kill first? Your beautiful songbird, or you?"

"Me" John answered, without a moment of hesitation.

"No John…!" Sherlock began, but was one again smacked with the gun.

"Ah, the selfish type" the Red Dragon grinned "can't bear to watch your songbird die, eh?"

He cocked his revolver, before aiming it square at John's head "goodbye John…"

Suddenly, John's hand whipped out and seized his golden tresses. He swung them out to the side, and they skirted across the floor, before wrapping around the Red Dragon's legs. John grasped the end of his golden plait, before pulling hard, knocking the Red Dragon and Sherlock to the floor. The gun was flung from his hands, and spun across the floor, skittering alarmingly. John instantly grabbed it, before cocking it and pointing it at the Red Dragon's heart.

"Let. Him. GO." John ordered furiously "or I _will _kill you."

The Red Dragon could only wheeze in response, but his grip on Sherlock loosened. John raced over to him, before pulling him up from the floor and showering his face with kisses.

"Are you alright?" John asked desperately, anxiously checking Sherlock's wounds "are you seriously hurt…?"

Sherlock stilled John's frantic hands "I'm alright" he gasped "I'm ok now."

Whilst they were stilled in their own world of comfort, the Red Dragon slowly regained use of his limbs.

He looked up at the pair, and a vibrant fury settled in his heart. He refused to be made a fool of. He stumbled to his feet, regaining his capacity to breathe through labored struggle.

He suddenly lunged forward, before grasping Sherlock, ripping him away from John and pulling him over to a window.

John raised the gun, but the Red Dragon held Sherlock in front of him. He couldn't possibly shoot one without killing them both.

The Red Dragon grinned madly, before holding Sherlock out over the edge of the window, despite Sherlock's furious struggles.

"Try to take advantage of me John?" he laughed "you'll pay the price."

John took a steady aim with the gun, aiming the oncoming bullet at the Red Dragon's heart.

"Give him back to me" he gasped furiously "**_now."_**

The Red Dragon laughed "such a romantic, aren't you?" he stroked Sherlock's hair as the Detective struggled furiously "I'll teach you a lesson..."

He held a struggling Sherlock above the window. Sherlock was strong, but his strength was no match for a hardened, prison escapee.

"Say goodbye to your _precious _songbird Romeo! Wherefore art thou salvation?!" he cackled madly.

"John…" Sherlock gasped, his eyes wide as he struggled against his captor's embrace "John!"

Before he could say anything more, The Red Dragon wrenched Sherlock off of the ground, before grasping him and forcefully flinging him out of the window.

* * *

John gave a horrified scream, and the Red Dragon laughed like a lunatic.

John felt fury boil inside him. He felt horror and anger, sadness and pain. The raving lunatic had just _killed_ the man he loved, and now here he was, standing in front of him and laughing his head off. John felt tears burn in his eyes. Tears of anger. Tears of dejection. Tears of revenge…

Revenge. That was all that consisted currently on John's mind. Not only for himself, but for Arthur and Charlotte. For all the people he had hurt. For Sherlock…

Without hesitation, he raced forward, and pushed the Red Dragon. Caught off guard with his laughter, he toppled and fell towards the earth, down, _down, down _with a deafening scream. John heard a sickening **crunch **as he hit the earth, the bones in his body snapping instantly.

John looked down at the battered body as it graced the earth, before flopping against the windowsill and letting his tears finally be permitted to leave his eyes.

He sobbed quietly, before he suddenly heard a desperate cry of 'JOHN!'

He raced to the window, and felt his heart soar as he saw Sherlock, clinging to another windowsill for dear life.

"Sherlock!" he cried, a glorifying expression gracing his features "oh Sherlock, you're alright!"

"Naturally John. Now, if you'd be so kind as to hoist me up from this situation, I would be most grateful."

John obeyed instantly. He let his golden tresses tumble over the windowsill, before Sherlock grasped them and began to climb to him.

John felt his heart soar and his head spin. This was the first time Sherlock had ever climbed his golden hair, and his touch was so _light_. So silken, so soft… it felt as though someone slowly stroking his long locks, coupled with soothing pulls every now and again. John closed his eyes blissfully for a moment, relieved that their nightmare was over and wishing that Sherlock could climb his 'golden stair' forever.

When Sherlock reached the windowsill, he helped John pulled his golden tresses back into the room, before turning to him and pulling him into an embrace.

"You saved my life" he whispered, his eyes filled with awe. He stumbled, tripping over his praise. For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was entirely lost for words.

John grinned "I merely ask for a kiss of gratitude."

Sherlock laughed, before he pulled John in for a long and luscious kiss. John eagerly kissed back, as a symphony of blue lights and wailing sirens burst out against the night air.


End file.
